


Crooked Crowns

by almaasi



Series: Elmie's Ineffable Fireplace Fics [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Additional Warnings in Author’s Note, Almost Sex, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Aristocrat Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexuality Spectrum, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Coming Out, Cuddling & Snuggling, Demisexual Crowley (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Found Families, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Historical Aesthetic, Historical Fantasy, Holding Hands, Hugs, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Intimacy, Knight Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Nonbinary Aziraphale (Good Omens), Other, Physical Contact Bordering That Exact Line Between Innocent and Erotic, Romance, Running Away Together, Schmoop, Sharing a Bed, Supportive Anathema (Good Omens), Tickling, Ticklish Crowley (Good Omens), Touchy-Feely, Utter Schmoop With Background Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 92,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21798895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/almaasi/pseuds/almaasi
Summary: (Fictionalised Regency Era AU.) When a Black Knight named Crowley is found sprawled in the snow, Baronet Zira Fell takes him to a safe place to heal his wounds and help him recover over the winter. They’re supposed to be enemies, not friends... But as the months pass, Zira dotes intimately on Crowley, sharing hours together by the fire, losing afternoons to indulgent dress-up games, taking horseback rides through the estate’s snowy grounds, then sneaking into each other’s beds at night – for warmth, that’s all... Slowly, Zira and Crowley discover that they have more and more in common than opposed.Now a grand Winter Ball is coming up fast, and Zira needs someone to play his made-up fiancee. Either he finds a woman prepared to lie on short notice, or – as Crowley jokingly suggests – the reclusive Baronet and the disgraced Knight risk their noble titles and step out together. Obviously that’s out of the question. They can’t be seen together. They can’t dance together. And they certainly can’t pretend to be engaged. One perfect night with the friend they’ve secretly come to love couldn’t possibly be worth losing everything... Or could it?*** NOW COMPLETE ***
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Elmie's Ineffable Fireplace Fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1570180
Comments: 203
Kudos: 377
Collections: Good Omens Human AUs





	1. What’s Black on White, and Red All Over?

**Author's Note:**

> The full fic is finished and ready to post, but I'm posting in chapters because I took it to a vote on [tumblr](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/) and people were divided over whether they wanted it in chapters or all at once. So if you want it in chapters, congrats! If you want it all at once, technically you don't have to wait any longer than you did before: the fic will be DONE AND COMPLETE on December 29th 2019. I'll be posting groups of new chapters every 2 to 3 days, with a few days break around Christmas Day.  
**Edit:** It's done now! ♥ [Fic graphic here!](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/189929368485/almaasi-crooked-crowns-crowleyaziraphale-92k)
> 
> Beta'd by [Katie](https://crab-full-of-rocks.tumblr.com/), [Libby](https://cersei-the-truth-bombardier.tumblr.com/), and [Amara](https://sweetdreamspootypie.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> » WARNINGS (for the entire fic)  
Multiple mentions of a past suicide attempt (off-screen, non graphic), and the up-and-down recovery from suicidal thoughts and depression. Tiny mention of past minor self-harm. Several mentions of blood and injuries, light medical care, fresh tattoos, fire, lots of food. One minor character death. Occasional talk about a fictional war and various battles and attacks, vaguely paralleling TV canon, and a smidgen of real life. Zira and Crowley refer to each other as “a man” until they each realise the other is nonbinary. (He/him pronouns are used for Crowley throughout, including when he presents as feminine... except by the Them, who refer to fem!Crowley with she/her pronouns.) Some worries about being queer in a homophobic society (ft. internalised queerphobia), but other characters either turn out to be completely accepting, or have bigger issues with Crowley and Zira before they ever get to that one. Mini plot thread includes some people trying to assassinate Crowley, but he’s too busy being hopelessly in love to notice. Shameless creative liberties have been taken with “history” and what might be considered “facts”. Even more shameless schmoop.

_[T]he whole point was that when a human was good or bad it was because they wanted to be. [...] People couldn't become truly holy, [Aziraphale] said, unless they also had the opportunity to be definitively wicked._

_Crowley had thought about this for some time and [...] said, Hang on, that only works, right, if you start everyone off equal, okay? You can't start someone off in a muddy shack in the middle of a war zone and expect them to do as well as someone born in a castle._

_Ah, Aziraphale had said, that's the good bit. The lower you start, the more opportunities you have._

_Crowley had said, That's lunatic._

_No, said Aziraphale, it's ineffable._

— Good Omens (Terry Pratchett & Neil Gaiman)

  
**♔**

**♔**  


Crowley’s yellow snake eyes stared up at the sky, crimson hair splayed around his winter-pale face like a starburst halo, burned onto a pillow of snow. He drew each jagged breath with a full-body spasm, the world turning slowly about him, fresh red on his lips, fresh red on his tongue, shivering.

Above him the church steeple spun like the shadow on a sundial, its point marking a different place in the white sky each moment. Two steeples, then one. Then two again.

  


**♔**

  


“It _was_ a nice ceremony,” Zira said, leaving the church with his hands tucked into a large, furry warming muff. “Don’t you think?”

“Hm.” Lady Anathema tilted her head quickly, striding from the tiles to the snow with her long skirt lifted in one hand. “Seemed a bit lavish for a wedding.”

“Not for an Earl marrying a _Duchess_,” Zira retorted. “I thought it was rather lovely. Well-planned.”

“You’re just saying that because there was food left to steal once everyone else left.”

Zira hugged his overfull hand muff protectively. “It would go to waste otherwise!”

Anathema laughed, but Zira, ruffled that his friend would accuse him of stealing, turned his face away. “Oh! Hallo,” he exclaimed, spotting something dark in the snow, thirty feet from the pathway. “What’s that, then?”

Anthema stopped walking too. “Lost cloak?”

They left the path and made their way over, boots crunching the deep snow that had piled up over the grass.

“Better not be a squirrel,” Zira muttered. “I don’t trust squirrels.”

Trepidation grasped Lady Anathema’s voice as she replied, “I don’t think it’s a squirrel.”

They came up on the dark mass, and realised it was large, and bulky, and bleeding.

They’d found a body of a man. Not just any man: a Black Knight. His armour had shattered around him, and blood spilled from either side of his abdomen like wings about to unfurl. There was the telltale tattoo of a sword on his face, just by his right ear.

Anathema looked up, her brown skin reflecting the light of Heaven. “He must’ve fallen from the steeple. Probably came here to disrupt the wedding.”

Zira stood looking down, platinum-blond curls wobbling as he shook his head slightly. His breath came quick, puffed out in clouds. The Black Knights were dreaded enemies, who had been busy causing untold destruction in every part of England for the past thirty-four years, but he couldn’t help feeling upset, seeing one dead.

He slowly lowered himself to a crouch, reaching to touch the man’s tattoo.

Yellow eyes flicked open – Zira jerked back with a cry, falling on his rear, hands in the snow, muff flung aside. “He’s alive!”

The man breathed desperately, eyes unfocused, limbs unmoving.

“We should go,” Anathema said, crouching to take Zira’s arm, trying to pull him up. “We’ll call the Witchfinder Army, they’ll take him away.”

“What? No! We can’t just hand him over— He’s hurt. If he’s no use to them, they’ll kill him!” Zira knelt forward again, hands protectively on the Knight’s chest, armour as cold as the snow and twice as smooth. “We have to help him.”

“_Help_ him? Zira, he probably came here to eliminate Michael during the wedding. Whoever pushed him out of the steeple did us and the entire Resistance a big favour. Let’s _go_.”

“No.” Zira tossed Anathema off his arm. “I’m taking him home. Maybe once he’s healed he’ll... he’ll come back to the light! Tell us what the Black Knights are planning next.”

Anathema began to impart several logical arguments against that statement, but logic was no match for the determination in Zira’s eyes. Zira stared back, pleading, and soon saw his young friend’s steadfast resolve soften to mush; a honey glow passed through her chestnut eyes, and she nodded with a sigh.

“Fine,” she said. “But your bookshop is three hours’ journey away from here, and he’s too badly injured. He needs a doctor, and fast.”

“So where do we take him?”

“My estate,” Lady Anathema said grimly, pulling her gloves off finger by finger. She glanced behind her, seeing the black horse idling by the road, the domed carriage half-hidden by a hedge. “My carriage is waiting. But we can’t take him like this – the armour’s a dead giveaway, not to mention heavy. Help me take it off.”

Zira nodded, and started pulling at smoky chainmail while Anathema removed the man’s black metal gauntlets. They found his dagger, and Anathema hurled it away out of sight.

They had to lift his torso to take off the chestplate, and both hissed as they realised it was the armour that had caused the injuries. A gash crossed the middle of his back, the seam of his protection having dug into him as he hit the ground.

“It’s a miracle he didn’t break his spine,” Anathema whispered, running a hand down that spine, checking she was right. The man croaked in pain.

“Well, this _is_ a good place for miracles,” Zira uttered, glancing up at the looming church.

“Ah,” came a fragile breath from the Knight as he was lain down again. His yellow eyes met Zira’s... and a shaking, curled hand wobbled its way up, the back of it touching to Zira’s soft jaw, stroking. “Ah... Are you... ‘n angel...?”

Zira took the man’s hand and held it. “No,” he said. “I’m not an angel. But it seems real angels are watching over you. You’re still alive, so there’s hope. We’re going to try to help you. We’ll find you a doctor.”

“Hn... No...” The Knight frowned as Anathema wrenched off his leg plates and hurled them into a nearby bush. “Leave me hh... here. Pl...ease. I can’t...”

“You’ll be fine,” Zira said, his high voice rising an octave, trying to be encouraging but betraying his terror. “You’re going to be fine.” He shot Anathema a glance, and they nodded together, reading themselves to lift the man.

Zira took the Knight’s torso, Anathema took his legs. With a careful heave, they rose up, thighs shaking with the effort, Zira gasping as he shuffled the weight up, holding the man under both arms, injured back pressed to his chest.

They made their careful way across the snow, back to the church path, then out past the hedge.

“Wignall,” Lady Anathema called to her driver. “The door, please.”

“Of course, my Lady.” A tall, peachy-cheeked, double-jowled man with bushy muttonchop sideburns stepped down from the front of the carriage, but stopped in his tracks when he saw the body, and his cheeks un-peached, his cigar drooping from his lips.

“Quickly, Wignall, he’s hurt.”

Wignall nodded, head down to do his job. He even helped them get the man lying down on the leather seat inside the carriage, unfazed by the blood on his hands.

“Home to the Estate, my Lady?” he asked, hurrying back outside and up to the driver’s ledge.

“Fast as you can.” Anathema slammed the door shut.

Wignall cracked the whip high in the air, yapped, “Like the hounds of Hell are after you, Ophelia!”

Within seconds the the carriage was hurtling down smooth country roads, black wheels kicking up a spray of white, the horse roaring, soon glossy and foaming at the mouth and joints, galloping at speeds only before seen on racetracks. The horse, Ophelia, had dreamed of running this fast ever since she was a foal. There was madness in her blinkered eyes and every heartbeat drummed with determination.

Inside the darkness of the shaking carriage, Zira sat with Anathema opposite the traitor’s body, staring at it. There was blood staining Zira’s cream tailcoat, just as there was blood staining Anathema’s white blouse.

Anathema looked at Zira, then reached to hold his icy hand. “We’re doing a good thing.”

“Are we?” Zira asked, hollow voiced, eyebrows rising, eyes remaining unfocused.

Anathema smiled. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

The Device Estate came up on the white horizon like an island rising from an ocean, frozen at the peak of a swelling wave. Its grounds were magnificent and perfectly symmetrical, bordered off by a sandstone wall, broken only by an iron gate, its spears tipped with gold.

Wignall leapt from the carriage to open the gate, then drove right up to the estate’s entrance, turning the wheels around the snowy courtyard. Ophelia’s snarling breaths came out in furious clouds. She came to a stamping halt, legs dancing, wanting to go on.

“Ride out and call for the doctor!” Anathema told her driver, as she and Zira carried the folded body of their enemy towards the stone steps of the estate. “Fast as lightning, Ophelia!”

Ophelia threw her head back and blared out a whinny as Wignall freed her from the carriage. He left the vehicle in place as he climbed onto the unsaddled horse. He didn’t need to tell her to go; she bucked straight into a canter and shot off back down the driveway, leaving hoofprints in the snow shaped like falling stars.

“Inside,” Anathema breathed, jostling the Knight’s body as she reached the top of the stairs.

Anathema’s lady’s maid curtseyed as she opened the door. “Afternoon, my Lady, how was the wed—” She scrambled back, giving her mistress and her Baronet friend a wide berth to enter, a body crammed between them. “My Lady?”

“Sofa,” Anthema said to her maid. “Hurry, Winnie. Find a blanket, he’s bleeding.”

Winnie rushed for the basket of blankets, pulling out one, then three more. She layered them over the couch before the fire’s glowing hearth, then gingerly assisted in arranging the injured man longways down the sofa.

Her ebony hand trembled over the man – then snatched back as she saw the tattoo on his face. “Th-that sword— My Lady, he’s a Black Knight! He’s evil incarnate! He can’t be here, my Lady, he’ll kill us all—”

“He’s no danger to anyone like this,” Lady Anathema promised her young maid, taking her hand. “Don’t be scared, honey. It’s all right. We’re hoping once he’s healed he’ll—” Anthema met Zira’s eyes, then smiled at Winnie. “He’ll talk. Maybe.”

Winnie seemed unconvinced, but bowed her head. “As you wish, my Lady. I will not speak a word. And – and the other staff will swear his presence to secrecy too, I know it.”

“I believe you’re right.” Anathema squeezed her hand. “I trust you, Winnie. Thank you.”

Zira sat on a footstool, his back to the crackling fire, facing the unconscious man. He held his own hands, wringing them, fighting back his doubt. Had he made a mistake? Had he made a mistake there was no undoing? Had he damned not only himself, but his friend, and her staff too?

There was no way of knowing for sure, but it was an easy guess...

Yes.

  


**♔**

  


Zira remained at the stranger’s side, watching his every breath, hand on his chest to check his heart was still beating. He stood when Winnie returned with bandages, and breathed several words of thanks as together they wrapped the man’s wounds – not expertly, but tight enough to keep him from bleeding any more.

Half an hour passed before Anathema threw open the front door and welcomed in the doctor with a tremor in her voice.

Winnie curtseyed as the doctor approached with her leather bag, and a stethoscope around her neck. “Dr. Loquacious.”

“Hello again, Winnie, you’re looking much better,” Dr. Loquacious said, her dark cheeks plumping as she smiled. “How is everything now?”

“Doctor, please, there’s no time,” Zira urged as he stood up, waving to direct the doctor’s attention to the patient. “He needs help.”

“Oh, yes,” Dr. Loquacious said, putting a pair of pince-nez upon her wide nose. “Dear-dear, he’s had a bit of a fight, has he?”

“Fell about thirty feet,” Anathema said, as the doctor listened to the patient’s heartbeat, then lifted his black linen undershirt and listened again. “Landed in deep snow. Back was cut by—”

“By a rock,” Zira said quickly. “A very sharp... long... evenly-placed rock.”

Anathema shot him a flat look, and Zira shrugged apologetically.

“Maybe it was a stick,” Zira added.

Dr. Loquacious was a doctor who produced results (eventually), but she was also a very distractible woman, and while she gave a welcome running commentary on her findings – “Heartbeat’s strong, that’s a good sign... Doesn’t _seem_ to have any internal bleeding, thank goodness, must’ve bit his tongue on the way down—” she also drifted into a mindless babble every few sentences, remarking, “He’s making your sofa very damp, isn’t he? This snow, I tell you. I stepped out this morning and I could’ve sworn I was ankle-deep in— Oh, yes. Talk later, shall we? Now, let’s see...”

It took another forty-five minutes, a fresh set of bandages, and two rods wrapped tight around the stranger’s thigh before the doctor sat back and removed her glasses.

“Well, he won’t be dying, that’s for certain,” she said. “Although there’s the possibility of infection, of course. So keep the wounds clean. And you mustn’t move him, not until the gash is healed – and he won’t be walking anywhere for at least a few weeks, perhaps a month.”

“A month,” Anathema said, both dismayed and intrigued.

“Good thing too,” the doctor said good-naturedly, packing up her bag of instruments. “Doesn’t bear thinking about, what an able-bodied baddie would do in a big place like this. You’d never find him. You probably have a hundred rooms here.”

“Just eighteen, not including the servants’ quarters,” Anathema smiled nervously. “And a lot of big cupboards.”

“Lovely,” Dr. Loquacious replied. “Anyway, my point is, keep an eye on him. A fractured femur and a bad back isn’t going to be much of a handicap if he’s as determined a Knight as all the others. I heard one fellow took out a whole battalion of the Resistance down in Brighton. Something about poisoned soup.”

Anathema wore a strained smile, ushering the doctor to the door.

“I’ll be sending you the invoice,” the doctor said cheerfully to Anathema. “Of course the callout fee would seem like nothing for you, your Ladyship.”

“Nothing at all,” Anathema agreed, stepping out into the afternoon gloom, walking with the doctor to the carriage she’d come in. “Thank you so much, doctor. And – I can trust you to be discreet about... uh, our guest, can’t I?”

“Oh, please! It’s already forgotten!” Dr. Loquacious wafted a hand past her head, hitting her bob of straightened black hair as she did. “What did I do this afternoon? No idea. Probably organising my biscuit tin. The ones at the bottom get all soft if I don’t rotate them, see.”

“Of course.” Anathema helped the other woman into the carriage, smiling to the driver, who was finishing up his tobacco pipe, working his hands in and out of fists, ready to drive. “Thanks for waiting.”

The driver tipped his cap, then clapped the reins. The chestnut horse went off in a high-hoofed trit-trot, crossing the tracks left by Anathema’s own carriage.

Anathema headed around the building, coming to the entrance to the stables. Her carriage was parked outside.

“Wignall?” she called, loose locks wafting past her shoulder as she craned around a post.

“Ma’am?” Wignall stood to attention, crumbs on his chin, half a sandwich in his hand.

Anathema gave him a kind look. “How’s Ophelia?”

Wignall looked pleased that she’d asked. “Bit knackered, my Lady, but happy as a bug. Best day of ‘er life, I’d wager.”

Anathema went up to the horse in her stall, rubbing down her nose. Ophelia was jet-black with soft brown eyes, and those long-lashed eyelids were drooping, each chew of her hay lazy and slow.

Lady Anathema then turned to her driver and held out her hand. “Thank you for what you did today.”

“Anything for you, my Lady,” Wignall said, surprise in his eyes. He shook her hand, then bowed slightly when she stepped back. “How is our man?”

“Broken thigh, and a clean laceration across his back, a lot of deep bruising. Mild concussion – he hit his head. But the bleeding’s stopped. Sleeping now. Sir Zira – the Baronet who came for the wedding, he’s keeping watch overnight.”

“The man – he’s a Black Knight, isn’t he, my Lady? I saw the mark on his face.”

Anathema inclined her head. “If we can get him to talk, he could be very valuable in moving forward in this stupid war of ours. I just want it over with already.”

“Do you think he would? Talk, I mean.”

Anathema hummed lightly, turning away to leave as she pondered. “If we can convince him to trust us? Yeah.” She glanced back, smiling. “I think he might.”

  


**♔**

  


Anathema met with Zira at the side of the living room, away from the crackling fire and the sleeping form of the Knight.

“A month,” Zira said quietly, fiddling with his own thumbs. “It’s quite a time.”

“And he’ll need help walking again,” Anathema nodded. “We can handle it.” She met Zira’s eyes. “You can head back to London in the morning.”

“I beg your pardon? Oh, no, my dear lady, no,” Zira begged, taking her hands. “I can’t leave you to look after – all this... Not by yourself.”

“I’m not by myself. My staff and I, we make a good team. We’ve got this.”

“But he’s my responsibility,” Zira insisted. “I asked to spare his life, I brought him here, I’m the one who’s—”

“Zira, I promise, it’s under control.”

“No! Under no circumstances am I having you risk your _life_ for my mistakes!”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Anathema said softly. “I think you were right. He’s a bargaining chip. Even if we can’t make him talk, we can hold him ransom for a truce or a ceasefire. The Black Knights must want their soldier back.”

“Ransom...?” Zira’s hands slipped from Anathema’s. “He’s an injured man, Anathema, he’s not a token for trading.”

“Sweetheart, this country is in the middle of a civil war,” Anathema murmured. “We’ve captured him, and he’s going to live. He’s an asset.”

Zira gulped. He breathed out, head turned away towards the latticed windows, where he saw the blueness of early night and the soft wisp of new snow floating down.

“Then,” he said, turning back to look his friend in the eye, “let me stay. Let me care for him. Whatever needs doing, I’ll be here to do it. You won’t have to take any time away from your tutoring or your big chemistry projects.”

“The whole month?”

“As long as it takes for him to heal. The whole winter if necessary.”

Anathema exhaled, nodding. “Alright.”

“I’ll pay for my own food, obviously, and I’ll hire staff of my own—”

“Oh, honey, don’t,” Anathema laughed. “You’re doing me a favour. Besides... I like your company. Would be great to have you here for more than a couple days at a time.”

Zira flicked his eyes up, bobbing his head a little in a ‘well, I _am_ delightful’ kind of way.

“Invite your fiancée up too,” Anthema suggested. “After all this time I’ve still never met her – could be nice! There’s more than enough room.”

A fast smile came and went from Zira’s pale face. “Hm. Yes. I... I’ll write to her, definitely. Although I— I can’t promise she’ll be along, she does hate to travel, you know how it is, gets all – seasick, and-and-and out of sorts, very unpleasant business.”

Anathema patted his arm affectionately, then turned away to head towards the massive wooden staircase in the front hall. She looked down at her blouse, saw the blood, and sighed.

Zira stood alone in the enclosing shadows of night, turning to look into the fireplace, finding the glow and the heat a comfort after such a dark and cold afternoon. Not for the first time today, he doubted his choices were the right ones.

If anyone found out that the people of the Device Estate were sheltering a Black Knight, Lady Anathema Device could be arrested, exiled, or potentially even executed for her crime. And Baronet Zira Fell would be the next to go. Having the enemy here was extraordinarily dangerous.

Zira paced around the sofa, then sat on the footstool to look into the new face of his doubt.

The Knight was a thin figure, bony – and seemed about the same age as Zira, maybe closing in on fifty. His dark red hair was tangled and dull, but it wasn’t hard to imagine it glossy, tied back, just touching his shoulders as he stood tall. While he might be considered superficially attractive, as a whole he was not: evil resided within him.

Yet Zira remembered the touch on his cheek outside the church, a tender hand, a whispered question: _Are you an angel?_

Zira smiled, head tilted as he studied the sleeping stranger.

Somehow in that touch, in those moments of contact, he’d sensed nothing evil. Just pain. Just fear. Just a longing for connection.

Zira was no angel.

But to angels he prayed now... _Please. Let this man be no demon._

  


**♔**

  



	2. The Baronet and the Black Knight

“Hhh...”

Zira snapped his book closed the moment he heard the Knight’s breath hitch. He leaned forward, reaching to take his hand. “What do you need?”

The Knight spread his fingers. “Wah... water...”

“One moment.” Zira got up and hurried to the bar cart, pouring out a glassful of water. It was room temperature, glowing orange from the fire on the left and a fainter blue from the moonlit window, twelve feet behind the sofa.

“Here.” Zira sat on the footstool, hand behind the Knight’s head to lift him – slowly, painfully – and held the glass to his lips to help him drink. He only managed a few short sips before coughing and collapsing back, eyes shut.

“Wher’m I?” he rasped, licking his lips wet. “Who ‘re you? Wh... Whah happ’n’d?”

“You took a bit of a tumble this afternoon, I’m afraid,” Zira said softly, setting the glass on the rug beside him. “From a church steeple, all the way up near the bells.”

The Knight’s eyes flashed open and shut again, a frown pinching between his dark brows.

“My friend and I found you and brought you somewhere safe,” Zira went on, speaking slowly so as not to confuse the man. “Your left thigh was fractured and you have a wound across your back. You’re very bruised. But you won’t die. It’ll just hurt a lot. The snow cushioned your fall, it seems.”

The Knight turned his head just a bit, peeking out towards the light of the fire, looking at the flicker, then at Zira, a plump silhouette with a flaming halo. “You?”

Zira smiled quickly. “Baronet Zira Fell, of Westminster.”

The interest in the Knight’s yellow eyes flared and turned to ash. “You’re Resistance.”

Zira nodded.

The Knight snarled. “Should’ve left me to die. What good ‘m I to your side?”

Zira considered telling the Knight about Anathema’s plan to make him rat out his fellow Knights, but he wasn’t sure about that plan – he liked his own plan better. “Hopefully a lot of good, actually,” he said. “I don’t intend to harm you. I just want to see you recover, that’s all.”

“You ‘xpect me to b’lieve that?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything, not in your condition,” Zira warned, as soft-voiced as he could manage. “Only rest.”

The Knight didn’t know how to respond, but looked both angry and wary.

Zira rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in. “Would you tell me your name, stranger?”

The Knight snorted. “Why?”

“I want to know what to call you.”

The Knight flicked his snake eyes away, then back. “Crowley.”

“_Crow_-ley. Like the bird – a corvid, yes? Is that your first or last name?”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” Crowley muttered. He gulped. “But ‘m Crowley, mostly.”

“What does the ‘J’ stand for?”

Crowley pushed his lower lip up carelessly. “Just a ‘J’, really.”

For a moment, there was silence, punctuated only by a smack of a log in the fire and a pop in the roof as it weighed the snow that covered it.

Then Zira said, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but – I’ve never met anyone with eyes like yours. Yellow. Vertical pupils. H-How, exactly...? Is that something all Black Knights have, or—?”

“Birth defect,” Crowley breathed, in the colourless tone of someone who’d said those words a thousand times. “Just me.”

“Oh, I see.”

Crowley sighed, frowning, wincing in pain.

“Can I get you anything?” Zira offered. “A hot towel, a painkiller... some food?”

Crowley’s lips parted, the slits of his eyes turned to Zira. “Food?”

“Ah yes! Lady Anathema’s kitchen is very well stocked. What would you like? We had some truly excellent mutton at dinner tonight, and there’s a loaf of bread somewhere, I’m sure I could scrounge up some cheese – although I wouldn’t want to invite nightmares, you do need your rest—”

“Soup.”

Zira stopped talking. “Soup, did you say? Oh, quite. Of course. Nothing better for a healing body than something hearty and delicious, I completely agree.” He stood, and was about to head down to the kitchens when he realised he ought not leave their guest alone. So Zira went to the wall beside the fire and tugged on the bell rope, which would ring in the kitchens. “Not two minutes, now. You’re lucky it’s only ten o’clock – half an hour more and Cook would’ve gone to bed.”

Crowley said nothing.

Soon enough, Cook Li Na arrived in the living room, brushing down her apron, patting her long, plaited hair into place. “Sir?”

“Ah, hello. So sorry to disturb you this late. I was wondering if we might have some hot soup and buttered toast brought up for our guest.”

Cook looked at Crowley on the sofa. She hesitated, but nodded. “What kind of soup, sir?” she asked Zira.

Zira glanced at Crowley. “Any preference?”

“Nn-nn.”

“Whatever’s on hand,” Zira conveyed to the cook. “I remember there was some on the table at dinner, wasn’t there? Just please take care to include some meat, some fat, and some vegetables – this man does needs his strength. And thank you ever so much. Again, apologies for the inconvenience.”

Cook smiled, as easily charmed by Zira as all the other staff. She nodded to him, then went off, humming a list of ingredients.

While they waited, Zira sat to read, but couldn’t concentrate, knowing the Knight was conscious and watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“Do you mind me asking,” Zira said quietly, after a few minutes, “what rank do you hold?”

Crowley peeked at him, then shook his head and gave a lazy shrug. “No rank.”

“So you’re just a Knight. Not a General or Corporal or anything.”

“Not a high priority for a search party, if tha’s what you’re wond’ring.”

Zira managed a smile. “It wasn’t, but that’s good to know in any case. No, I... I only ask because, well, in terms of nobility, and the gentry, and all of that, the title of ‘Baronet’ is rather entry-level too. In fact it ranks equal with a Knight. So you and I are on level ground there. That’s something, I suppose.”

Crowley seemed to smile, gazing at Zira through one half-hooded eye. “Sssomething.”

“Then again,” Zira added, feeling a flush of heat, hoping it was his proximity to the hearth, not the Knight’s gaze drenching him in invisible Hellfire, “Despite what we might have in common... _you_ are a Black Knight. I’m part of the Resistance. We’re hereditary enemies.”

A derisive snort puffed from Crowley’s thin nose.

“You disagree?”

Crowley turned his head away a bit, licking his lips, then sighed and glanced back. “I was – pushed from the tower, by another Knight. I’m a traitor to my own people. And your side’s not likely to welcome me. Enemies. You and me. Me and everyone. Hereditary-ness ‘s got nothing to do with it, angel. Was my actions that got me here. So... I’m on my own side now. No friends in the world.”

Zira had felt a rush in his chest when Crowley called him ‘angel’, but the rush sank away in sadness as Crowley finished speaking.

“Not one?”

Crowley shut his eyes.

Zira exhaled, reaching for Crowley’s hand, but withdrawing before he made contact. He hesitated on a breath twice, but then said, “I’ll be your friend, Crowley.”

Crowley looked at him sharply, apparently about to laugh. “You _what_?”

Zira shrugged, wearing a soft smile. “I’ll be your friend. If you’ll have me.”

For a number of seconds, Crowley just stared. Then a lopsided smile began to creep up his lips, showing his teeth on one side. “Youuu’re gonna get yourself killed.”

“You don’t look too unhappy about that.”

Crowley tilted his head, looking in amusement at the rafters, high above. “There’s worse things.”

“Than what?”

“Than having an angel as a friend.”

Their eyes met. Their gazes held, their breaths slow.

They were meant to be enemies. But somehow, suddenly, they weren’t.

Zira leaned back when Cook Li Na entered with a bowl of soup on a tray. Hurriedly Zira fetched a small table and cleared a space for it by the sofa, thanking the cook profusely.

He breathed in the wholesome aroma of the steaming soup and the golden richness of buttered toast, and he asked, tentatively, “Any chance there’s a second helping anywhere?”

After three days living with Zira Fell under the same roof, requesting meals at all hours of the day, Cook Li Na was unsurprised, and smiled. “Made you up one already, sir. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Oh! Lovely.”

Once she was gone, Zira pulled the footstool right up to the sofa, sat, and helped Crowley to sit up, him and his lumpen bandages propped against the backrest. The Knight reached for the bowl, and his spoon, but was too weak to lift either from the tray. Flashes of pain crossed his face like thunderbolts.

So Zira sat by him on the sofa, took the bowl into his own lap, and leaned close, spoon poised, ready to feed him.

Crowley pulled his chin back, looking at Zira incredulously.

But Zira gave him a kind look, and promised, “Just until you’re stronger, Crowley. And—” He glanced to the open left side of the room, through which he could see the staircase banister and the open hall that led to the kitchens. “I shan’t let Cook see. You still have some dignity to preserve, and I will protect it fiercely.”

Trepidation danced in Crowley’s eyes for some time. But the mouthwatering scent of the food and the openness with which it was offered was too much to resist. Crowley dipped his head, letting Zira set the spoon to his lips so he could drink it.

They made it through two spoonfuls before Zira got up quickly, hearing the Cook coming. He lavished her with gratitude, and on a whim, performed a magic trick, and handed her the coin he’d found in her ear. She curseyed, grinning widely as she pocketed her shiny new guinea, then left, wishing Zira a good night – although the Baronet did notice she didn’t include the Black Knight in that wish.

Leaning to the side to check she was gone, Zira then hastened back to Crowley, sat by him, and held the soup and fed him.

Spoonful by spoonful the soup was sipped up, chewed, and swallowed. The toast was drenched, and crunched and sucked on until it dissolved on Crowley’s tongue. Eventually a light returned to Crowley’s eyes. It was a small light, a tentative one, but it illustrated a spark of improvement.

Crowley even had the strength to mop up his own bowl with the last of the toast, and although his hand shook violently, he made it to his mouth.

Zira sat opposite by then, enjoying his own meal. The soup was lukewarm, but it tasted good enough that he barely minded. He wore a smile, because Crowley smiled too, and if there was one thing Zira liked as much as a full stomach, it was seeing someone else just as sated.

They had little opportunity to talk – because while Zira was still enjoying his food, Crowley slipped into slumber, head lolling on the sofa back.

Zira went to him, waking him gently.

“Come on, now. You’ll get a crick in your neck, otherwise,” he said, helping Crowley lie down, even as he complained and whimpered in pain. “There, that’s better.”

Crowley looked at him, but Zira only saw a sheen of yellow before Crowley’s eyelids drooped closed, unable to resist a blink. He was asleep in moments, a slim hand slumping off the sofa’s edge.

Zira lay that hand back in place, then looked around for blankets. He found his favourite: a thick, woolly tartan one, and draped it over his new friend, tucking it in at the sides.

  


**♔**

  



	3. Witchfinder Sergeant Gullible

For the following days, Zira kept his promise: he fed Crowley small, light meals by hand seven times a day – breakfast, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner, supper, and a midnight snack – and not once did he allow anyone else to see. He stopped and stepped back when servants approached, and allowed Crowley to lift his trembling hands to his own mouth when Lady Anathema came by, but it was easier and less messy to spoonfeed him once they were alone. And so it went.

Besides Wignall down in the stables, all of the Device Estate’s staff were women, and somehow it seemed inappropriate to make them take care of Crowley’s most personal needs. So, with several of Anathema’s room dividers repurposed and set up around the sofa for privacy, Zira was the one who brought Crowley his chamber pot, helped him arrange himself to use it, and then took it away again with a cloth draped over the top. He brought damp cloths and hot towels so Crowley could clean himself, or on rarer occasions, so Zira could do it for him. They said nothing about this, not one word.

Zira once heard a faint breath of “_thank you_” as he left, but Crowley had averted his eyes when Zira looked back.

Zira left Crowley alone to sleep on the sofa each night. But, even up in his bedroom, he himself could not sleep more than three hours at a time. So he wandered downstairs in his nightgown and long cap, a courting candle held abreast with the iron handle wound over his finger. The flame flickered as he walked, but settled as he sat, and he watched over his charge until he woke, right on schedule, needing the toilet, to wash, and to eat.

Cook Li Na had taken to leaving two identical meals on a table in the living room, close enough to the fire to be kept warm.

Crowley and Zira dined as a pair, conversing over calming, unimportant things. The weather was a favourite topic. Crowley liked to watch the snow fall but could not be moved nearer the window, or sit at the table there, for fear of reopening his wounds – so he looked forward to healing, for that reason among others. Zira told Crowley that, personally, he liked the springtime better, as he didn’t like drizzle, but, oh, he would need a new coat soon, as his old favourite was... well, covered in Crowley’s blood.

“Sorry about your coat, angel,” Crowley said, stuffing a puffy Yorkshire pudding into his mouth, chewing one side of it until the other half plopped back into his beans.

“Wasn’t your fault,” Zira promised him.

Crowley smiled tensely, head down. He poked and prodded at his food, but didn’t eat any more that night. Beans were quite filling.

  


**♔**

  


“Try this,” Lady Anathema said, looking especially studious in her circular, black spectacles, striding into the living room in a swoosh of long blue skirts that shone in the whiteness of daylight. “It’s an herbal compound my ancestors used to banish evil spirits. But,” she smiled as she sat on Zira’s footstool, “I’ve been studying the ingredients and honestly, I think it’s just a painkiller.”

Crowley looked up from the book Zira had left him. “Oh. Um. Thank you very much... my Lady.”

“Do you want me to put it on?”

Crowley closed the book slowly. He glanced at his broken thigh, bare legs hidden under the tartan blanket. “Oh. No, I’m— I’m fine,” he lied. “No pain whatsoever.”

“Really?” Anathema looked surprised. “Right. Well, I’ll leave it here.” She put the pestle and mortar of weird-smelling green stuff on the table near Crowley. “Just in case. Works like an ointment, just rub it on and let it sit.”

Crowley forced a smile. “Haven’t seen Zira anywhere, have you?”

“He was getting ready,” Anthema said, standing by the fire to warm her hands. “Although God knows what he’s going to wear out there. He’s off to buy a new coat – I said he could borrow one of mine, I know there’s probably twelve upstairs. Dressing rooms crammed with clothes every third door along.”

A tick of anxiety washed through Crowley’s chest. “He’s going out...? Wh— When’s he coming back?”

“Few hours. We’re pretty close to a big town, out here. And an hour’s ride to Oxford, two hours round trip. He doesn’t have to travel far.”

A small smile lifted Crowley’s lips. “Are you sure you should be hinting to me about our location? Sworn enemy, and all.”

Anathema gave him a sweet look. “Give us a reason not to trust you, and maybe we won’t. Until then I don’t see why we ca—”

A massive, urgent thumping came from the direction of the front door. They had a visitor.

Anthema turned swiftly, taking a few steps towards the door – then her eyes darted to Crowley on the couch, his tattooed side open to the room. “Shit,” she breathed. She fled the room, and Crowley craned his head, only seeing the flash of blue as Anthema ran _away_ from the door.

She came back within seconds, uttering urgently to Winnie, “You’ll have to be fast, and quiet, I’ll stall whoever it is. Just pray it’s not the Witchfinders. Quickly, quickly—”

Crowley found himself helped to his feet by the women, Winnie’s arm around his back, which began to throb. Upon his feet, the room began to swirl, and his thigh jammed between the rods; his body swayed towards Winnie, who shrieked.

“Zira!” Anathema shouted up the stairs. “_Zira!_”

The thumping sounded at the door again. Anathema huffed in hesitation, but then ran to the door and stepped outside. Crowley heard Anathema’s warmest voice saying, “Oh, hiii! Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell! So good to see you—” before the door clicked shut.

“What’s all the ruckus?” came the faint squeak of Zira’s voice. He hurried down the stairs, curious, wearing a fresh white shirt with lace draped around the wrists, cream trousers, and an untied cravat. “Oh, good Heavens—” He ran to help Winnie as she and Crowley staggered towards the staircase. Zira heard the low rumble of a man’s voice outside the front door, and realised the problem.

“It’s the Witchfinders, sir,” Winnie whispered, her voice shaking.

“Hurry,” Zira breathed. “Let’s take him to my room, I have the key, he’ll be safer there.”

They took the stairs fast but unsteady, Crowley breathing through the pain, gasping and grunting and leaning more on Zira than on Winnie.

They tripped on the last stair, but Zira grabbed Crowley, whispering assurances as they stumbled a few doors along the picture-gallery hallway and pushed open an oak door.

“Lie him down,” Zira told Winnie, as Crowley collapsed face-first on Zira’s unmade bed. “Oh, Lord, no, he’s bleeding. He’s bleeding.”

“I’ll run and get more bandages,” Winnie said, the whites of her eyes ashine.

Zira ran to the door and shut it behind her, turning the key in the lock. Crowley’s body screamed, and his own mouth opened to moan, fingers gripped in the sheets. He tore the bedsheets from their place, a huge gasp sucked in through his open mouth; he cried out, howling, eyes tight shut.

“Shh-shh-shh,” Zira begged, sitting on the bed beside him, hand on Crowley’s back. “You have to be quiet. If the Witchfinder realises you’re here it’ll get us all killed.”

Crowley tried to stifle his yell but pain bucked through his system – it went beyond pain as he’d ever known it; it was _excruciating_. His leg vibrated like a gong that wouldn’t fall silent; his full-body bruises pulsed with every too-fast, too-hard heartbeat, and he could _feel_ the wound in his back had split open, fragile skin split along the seam. It was a delicate, whistling pain upon the surface, like a papercut, but inside it grasped his muscles in a fist, holding too tight.

“Keep quiet,” Zira said again, more softly. He lay down by Crowley, holding him, finger-combing his long hair away from his tattoo. “Shhhh, Crowley. It’s okay. It’ll be okay.”

Crowley took Zira’s hand and held it, eyes tight shut, teeth gritted, tears squeezing from his eyes. In all his mindless overwhelm, he vaguely registered the fact Zira squeezed him back. They held on, measuring breaths, weeping against each other’s faces.

  


**♔**

  


Anathema’s smile was a practised smile, the one she wore when people asked which English Lord she’d married to get the title of ‘Lady’, and she politely told them no, she was unmarried, her family had been ranking nobility for four hundred years, and yes, she had an American accent and brown skin because she was a Latina woman born in America, but when her aunt took ill and passed away in England, Anathema had come back to her roots here, because she was, and always had been, an English Lady.

She stood on the steps of her estate wearing that smile, hugging her middle and pretending stepping outside in just a blouse and house shoes in four-inch snow was something she liked to do often.

“Aye, good fer the senses,” Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell said, nodding sagely under his hat with its ear flaps and tattered tassels. “Brisk air! Wouldn’ae see a Black Knight runnin’ araend here in thus weather!”

“I completely agree,” Anathema nodded, smiling harder. “No Black Knight here.”

“Ah, well,” the Witchfinder said, waggling a stubby white finger, “cannae take any chances, lass. Been hearin’ stories. Some anonymous tipster mailed in sayin’ they’d seen a Black Knight skulkin’ around a churchyard a few days since. My men and I’ve been pokin’ around e’rry nook and cranny of e’rry church around here and have nothing to show for it but an empty pile ‘a armour.”

“So there _was_ a Black Knight,” Anathema shivered. “But if he left his armour, maybe he... died. Vapourised! By, uh. Holy forces. On consecrated ground. You know, if he was in a churchyard.”

“Aye! Tha’ssa good thought.” Shadwell boxed his square chin with a finger and thumb. “Aen’t heard of a Black Knight vapourisin’ before but I wouldn’t put it past ‘em. Devilish bastards.

“Nae,” he added, “the one we’re lookin for has a pair of yellow eyes. Like a snake. Hard to miss something like tha’.” He took hold of the estate’s front door handle and opened it, peering in. “Any chance that snake’s slithered its way in here wi’out yer knowin’?”

“Can’t say I’ve noticed anything.” Anathema wet her lips, then regretted it when the cold stung her. “Hey,” she said lightly, redoubling her smile, “do you think... this snake-eyed Knight has anything to do with... the, um... old local legends?”

“Eh?” Shadwell had opened the door fully, and was poking his head in, sniffing. “Wha’ legends would that be, then?”

“A man,” Anthema said, hating that the cold made her brain slow. “Who becomes a beast. A cat. At night. Yellow eyes. Big black thing, roams around the... the hills, and steals – mutilates – cattle and sheep.”

“A cat, ye say?”

“More like a panther. Really big, hunchbacked thing.”

Shadwell seemed speculative. “A transmogrifier.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Trans-_moggie_-rifier— Hah!”

Anathema pretended to laugh. “Exactly. Eats livestock. And people, obviously. Very dangerous.”

“Aye.” Shadwell nodded. “Sounds like witchcraft if I’m not mistaken.”

“You never are,” Anathema assured him, gripping his clammy hand.

Crowley’s faint cry of pain echoed down from upstairs, and Anathema chilled, readying herself to swear blind that it had come from that hill over yonder, and that’s what the great beast sounded like – but apparently the Sergeant was a little deaf, or the ear flaps were a greater hinderance than he realised, as he heard nothing. Or maybe Anathema holding his hand was enough of a distraction.

“Well, ‘s a good a lead as any,” the Witchfinder said, patting the top of his head to cram his hat on tighter. “Transmogrifyin’ Hellbeast could explain the disappearing Knight, an’ the slitted yellow eyes. And a pile of armour – must’ve burst right oot of it when it transformed.”

Anathema nodded.

“I’d best tell the men,” Shadwell said humbly, taking Anathema’s hand and kissing the back of it. “Many a thanks for yer time, yer graciousness.” He bowed slightly, then trotted down the steps, a trot which became more of a lethargic rocking near the bottom.

Anathema waved to him, gave him her best smile when he looked back. Then he stumped off down the driveway – so she turned and rushed back inside, door slammed.

She fell back against the door, catching her breath, feeling her extremities tingle with the return of heat – then she looked up the stairs, picked up her skirts, and ran.

She heard Crowley’s sobs growing louder as she neared the top of the stairs. She followed the cries, only to be overtaken by Winnie in a great rush – “So sorry, my Lady, his wounds—”

Winnie tried to open the door but bumped into it. She knocked. “Sirs? The bandages—”

Anathema stood beside her lady’s maid and called, “Zira, the Witchfinder’s gone. We’re safe.”

It took several seconds before they heard the click of the key in the lock.

The door was pried open, Zira’s round grey eyes peering out. He saw who it was, and opened the door all the way.

Winnie entered first, unravelling bandages, but she stopped suddenly, skirt hem swishing on the floorboards, when she saw the bed on the left of the door.

Anathema entered, and saw...

The bedsheets had been ripped into pieces, clawed apart – and at first Anathema thought the damage was done by Crowley’s hands, maddened by pain. But the strips had been used as bandages. Crowley lay on his back, half-naked, half-conscious, pale, one hand twitching by his side. He was wrapped tight around his middle with bloody cotton, the remainders draped for modesty from the waist down. Zira had done what needed to be done.

Winnie caught Anathema’s eyes, curtseyed, then left the room, taking the unneeded bandages with her.

Anathema closed the door behind her, eyes turning to Zira, then Crowley.

Zira sat on the bed by Crowley, touching that twitching hand. Crowley curled his fingers into Zira’s, and his hand went still.

Seconds later, his lips trembled, and he asked, eyes half-open, looking slowly at Zira, then Anathema, “Why’re you doing this? Why are you... helping me?”

Anathema bowed her head. Whether she intended to manipulate Crowley into trusting her or not, she supposed the easiest way to invite trust was to be honest. So she explained, quietly, “I don’t like how the Black Knights go around ransacking supplies and hurting people, somehow thinking that means they’re more worthy of winning the war. It’s cruel, and disgusting. But neither do I approve of the way the Resistance fights back with tactics that are barely any different. And for what? I’ve yet to hear a good reason. Each side is no better than the other. I hate the war. I hate all war. There’s other things in the world, _important_ things, where that time, energy, money, and people’s _lives_ would be better served. I know having you here is dangerous. But I’m hoping you’ll be useful somehow, in the long run. Maybe that’s selfish. But more than anything, you’re hurt and in danger. And if I didn’t help you, just because of who you are and where you came from, I’d become exactly the kind of person I hate.”

Her long stare proved her conviction. Crowley held her gaze for as long as she kept it on him. Then she lowered her head, her eyes, and drew a breath. Solemnly, she looked at Zira.

Crowley did too. Waiting for his answer.

Zira just looked at Crowley’s hand, stroking it with his thumb.

“Why,” Crowley repeated, a sore whisper.

Zira met his eyes. Held them.

“I don’t know,” he said.

And none of them – not Crowley, not Anathema, and not even Zira himself – knew for certain if that was the truth or a lie.

  


**♔**

  



	4. Bathtime Confessional

“Right!” Zira marched into the living room a few days later, tugging on a white ladies’ coat with fur cuffs. “I’ll be off then. Can you believe this is the best I found? I’m half certain this is squirrel fur, and I am _not_ in favour.”

Crowley smirked, looking up from his book. “Hm! Looks just darling on you, angel.”

Zira’s cheeks coloured, and he made a flattered noise, stroking the coat. “Um. Ah— I-I should be back in—” Zira checked his pocket watch, “ooh, a few hours.”

“You’re really going out?” Crowley set aside his book, a flash of desperation rising in his chest. “But— But what do I do? What happens when you’re gone? Who’s—” His voice dropped lower, “Who’s looking after me?”

Zira offered a sympathetic smile. “Would you like me to help you now? So you’re not in need while I’m out.”

Crowley nodded. “I need—” He gulped. “I need a... bath.”

“A bath?” Zira’s well-groomed eyebrows rose towards his fluffy white hair. “Oh, well, that can wait a few hours, can’t it—”

“No,” Crowley said. “Bath. Right now.”

“For what reason?!”

“_What_ reason?” Crowley spat. “I’ve been here nine days, by my count, and hot towels just aren’t cutting it,” he said. “Need a bath. Hot water. Soap. Sponge. Rubber duck—”

“I know what a bath is, Crowley,” Zira said testily. “Look, it’s absolutely freezing outside, and without a good, well-tailored coat I am going to be in a very bad state for anything by next week, let alone fit enough to care for you. All I ask is a few hours.”

“But...” Crowley’s lip trembled, and he tried to press it under his other lip to still it.

“Make it three hours,” Zira said, checking his watch. “I’ll be back by quarter past five. All right?”

Crowley’s breath hastened, but he forced a nod. His heart was jumping, hands clammy.

“Right, then.” Zira turned for the door. “Toodle-pip!”

“Nno-nn-nn— Angel—!”

Zira stopped, looking back.

Crowley gasped softly, blushing, trying to turn away. He breathed hard, emotions clawing inside him. The thought of being without his angel for such a long time was terrifying, and it shouldn’t have been.

He fought to get himself under control – but once he looked up, Zira was sitting himself down beside him, coat off and hung over his arm, looking at Crowley with a concerned, but gentle smile.

“Just leave already,” Crowley spat, averting his eyes. “I don’t need you.”

Zira hummed a note. He looked over at the front door, down to his borrowed coat. Then back to Crowley. “A bath, was it?” he asked.

Crowley gulped. He was silent for a while. Then nodded, hopeful. “Mm-hm. The warmest... soapiest bath.”

Zira parted his lips with the tip of his tongue. His head turned – Winnie was passing by carrying new bedsheets for Zira’s room, and Zira called to her: “Oh, Winnie, would you be so kind as to fill Sir Crowley a hot bath, please? And I need to go out, so ask around the staff, see if anyone’s available to assist him with washing, too, would you—”

“Nghnn-no!” Crowley gripped the blankets over the sofa, shaking his head at Winnie. “Don’t. Don’t.”

“Sir?”

Crowley looked at her desperately. “Wwwant. Want... Zira.” His eyes shot to Zira, then away, deeply embarrassed by how reliant on one person he’d become.

Zira stared.

He drew a soft breath, then looked at Winnie. “Just the bath, please.” There was a note of something new in his voice. Softness, twice as soft as before.

Once Winnie left, Zira’s eyes skipped to Crowley’s, but their gazes didn’t meet.

With a smile, Zira said, “Any chance I could convince you that the maids would do a good job? They’re very discreet young ladies.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around his middle, insecure with the very thought of being unclothed around anyone else.

Zira noticed. “No,” he agreed. “I suppose not.”

  


**♔**

  


It took another half an hour for the bath to be filled, as all the water had to be heated over various fireplaces, and carried upstairs bucket-by-bucket. The maids were well-practised, and expertly efficient, but there was no helping the delay.

For the sake of Crowley’s dignity – a tall order around here, perhaps, given the fact he was a Black Knight – Zira asked that the staff vacate the halls, so he and Crowley could make their way to the bathroom alone.

It was a slow walk, what with Crowley’s strapped thigh and his inability to put much weight down on his left. But they made it up the stairs, along the hall, and into a cosy, white-tiled bathroom, where a steaming claw-footed bathtub lay in wait. The wide window behind it was fogged up, but a blur of winter branches shifted outside in the wind.

Crowley leant on the wall for a bit, while Zira went back to close the door. He took off his own waistcoat, then his cravat, leaving his shirt collar open, enough skin visible at his throat to distract Crowley’s eyes from his own shirt.

Zira held Crowley up as he undressed, that tatty bedshirt tossed to the floor for a wash, followed by the old bandages and support poles, then his breeches, which had been cut short on the left, but had still been a task to put on over the strapped leg, and were just as hard to take back off. A clean second pair exactly the same sat folded on a nearby wicker chair, along with new clothes, all oatmeal-coloured linen – the kind of things a farmhand would wear.

“Here we go, then,” Zira said, steadying Crowley as he lifted his good leg into the bath, got his foot steady on the slippery base of the tub, then lifted his other leg right over, lowering his body into an awkward, uneven squat, then sitting down, broken leg out of the water with his calf hooked over the rim. The water only came up to his hairy navel.

With a relieved sigh, Crowley lay back against the tub’s slant, eyes shut.

“Here’s your rubber duck,” Zira said.

Crowley peeked out with one eye, and smiled as he was handed something yellow with an orange blob at one end. “Not much of a duck.” He squeezed it, and it squeaked. He then put it in the water, and it floated. “But if it quacks like a duck... and swims like a duck...?”

Zira laughed, kneeling barefoot by the bath. “_Must_ be a duck.”

Crowley shut his eyes again, sliding both hands into the water, scooping, then splashing his own chest.

“How’s the back?” Zira asked, scooping for him.

“Hm. Sore.”

“Well, you’re not bleeding, that’s a start.”

They spent a few minutes soaking Crowley wet, pouring water over him with a ceramic jug to drench his shoulder-length hair. He washed his face – hands steady now, no shakes – and under his arms, and then took the soap he was handed, lathering everything.

But he grew tired quickly. His arms stayed up for only seconds at a time, his breath came out in long wisps though pouting lips, and his head nodded forward or back, lolling to the side.

“Let me,” Zira said softly. He took the soap away, and with a wet sponge, he began to swipe Crowley’s shoulders, fingering his sodden locks of hair out of the way. Crowley tipped his head to let Zira wash his neck, his ears, his throat.

Zira watched him closely, almost watching Crowley’s face more than he watched what he was washing. Crowley’s eyes remained stuck shut, unmoving, completely relaxed.

Upper arms. Forearms. Underarms (ticklish – a flinch, a laugh, a splash). Ribs. Chest. Between his legs... Zira knelt up at the end of the bath, reaching over Crowley’s shoulders to get to everything. Crowley’s head was bracketed between Zira’s arms, feeling each other’s warmth.

At one point, Crowley rested his head on Zira’s inner arm, and Zira smiled, his other hand lifting to touch Crowley’s head. “I do need that arm back, my dear,” he said softly. Crowley released him.

Soon Crowley leaned forward, hugging his thighs, chin on his knees. Zira washed his back for him, careful on just-healed skin. There was a crusting red mark right across his natural waist, broken only in the dip of his spine.

“Angel?” Crowley said, under his breath.

“Mm-hm?”

Crowley turned his head, cheek on his knees, yellow eyes searching for Zira. Their eyes didn’t need to meet; Zira appreciated the effort to look at him anyway.

“What is it?” Zira asked.

Crowley sighed. “I want to tell you something. A... A secret of mine, I suppose. But you have to swear... You can’t... You can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

A chill rose up Zira’s spine, but he didn’t still the sponge as he squeezed warm water down Crowley’s back. “I’m listening.”

Crowley gulped twice, fists curled, taking uneven breaths. Finally, he whispered, voice tense, “The day we met, I was drafted... Sent to a wedding. Told... Instructed. _Commanded_ to kill the couple before they were wed. Before the Earl could become a Duke and gain control of a second army.”

Zira’s hand stopped over Crowley’s hip. Shock ripped through him, even though deep down he’d already known that secret. Crowley was his enemy. It shouldn’t have been a surprise he’d been sent to kill Zira’s friends.

Well, ‘friend’ was too chummy a word for Michael, or Gabriel. They were Zira’s acquaintances. The most they had in common was that they were on the same side. Supposedly they were all working towards the same goal: peace in England. But their methods and Zira’s methods to acquire peace did tend to be at odds with each other.

“Well, then,” Zira said with a breath, lifting his chin and getting back to his task. He heard a lilt of distaste in his voice as he told Crowley, “Good thing someone stopped you.”

Crowley sighed. He hugged his legs again, resting his cheek down, eyes lowering. “Nobody stopped me, angel,” he whispered.

Zira paused again, head to one side. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley gulped. “I... I stopped myself.”

A shock ten times the force of the last tore through Zira’s mind and body, boiling and freezing him in an instant. Crowley had chosen to throw himself off a church steeple rather than carry out an order to kill.

Nobody pushed him. He’d _jumped_.

Zira had no words.

He bowed his head and got back to washing his friend.

He soon found, inexplicably, that he touched Crowley more now, completely by accident.

  


**♔**

  


Once Crowley was sparkling clean, from the roots of his crimson locks to the soles of his feet, Zira helped him out of the bath, not minding that his shirt was all wet now. He wrapped Crowley in a towel and rubbed him down, grinning when Crowley hummed a laugh, a hum that morphed straight into a giggle.

“You are ticklish, aren’t you,” Zira said fondly, as Crowley almost fell over and they both dropped the towel to right him. “I thought only children were ticklish.”

Crowley smiled, but it seemed sad now. “S’pose I never grew out of it,” he admitted, as Zira lifted the towel again to give him modesty. “Didn’t get much of a chance to enjoy being a child, really.”

Zira heard the pain in that confession. He could only imagine what horrors had been thrust upon a younger Crowley, as he, like Zira, had grown up in a time when the Black Knights were gaining power, taking and destroying and recruiting more and more people to their cause. Someone like Anathema, being twenty-four years of age, had never known anything else, and had always lived according to today’s customs; patterns were engrained in her and she could respond without effort. But Crowley had once known peace, and had been forced to embrace the change unwillingly, as there was no way to return to the ways of the past, and fighting it just made things harder.

“Do you ever think about what it was like? Before?” Zira asked, squashing Crowley’s hair in bunches within a second towel. “Before everything went wrong.”

“All the time,” Crowley said. His yellow eyes lifted, and he gazed at Zira, slowly drawing a breath. “I can’t tell if those memories make me happy or sad.”

Zira nodded, head down. Him too.

“Of course,” Zira said with a bothered smile, “peace or no, the world we live in was always terrible for someone. It just happens that right now it’s affecting us, so we notice.”

“I noticed before,” Crowley said. He gulped, letting Zira dry the nooks of his ear, then his sword tattoo. “I was told... the Black Knights would bring justice for those without homes or food or families, anyone who was being wronged. They recruited me on that promise.”

“And? Have they kept their promise?”

Crowley smiled. He met Zira’s gaze, and his eyes seemed to sparkle. “If they had, do you think I’d be here now? After failing a mission as dramatically as I did?”

“I suppose not.”

“No.”

The maids were still changing Zira’s sheets – the delay being caused by his mattress, apparently, as Crowley’s blood needed cleaning off – so halfway down the hall, Zira took a detour with Crowley on his arm, heading for another guest room, one door down from Zira’s own.

“This can be your room now, I think,” Zira said, helping Crowley to sit on the side of the bed. “There’s a bell rope if you need assistance. And tonight I’ll be sleeping in the next room, so you can bang on the wall if it’s me you’re after. You’re doing much better, you know. Sitting up by yourself. Feeding yourself every meal. I’m quite proud of you, actually.”

Crowley smirked. “Thanks.”

“Do you need anything now? Or can I finally go out and buy myself a coat?”

Crowley shrugged. “Honestly? I could do with a nap.”

“Ah, capital. You’ll sleep until I come back.”

“Mm-hm.”

Crowley rotated to lie down in the cold bed, and Zira kindly tucked him in.

“I’ll tell someone to bring you a candle before I go, it’ll be dark in about an hour and I won’t have you stubbing your toe on something trying to get to the chamber pot. Chamber pot iiiis – ah, yes! – under the bed. I’ll put it up on the foot of the bed so you can get to it without bending. How’s that?”

“Hm.” Crowley was already yawning.

“All set? Are you going to let me leave this time?”

Crowley nodded. “Thanksss, angel.”

Not for the first time, Zira paused to consider the warmth Crowley managed to radiate through that one word. _Angel_.

Did he really see Zira like that? A protective, magical being, built from Holy Fire? Was it a joke, perhaps, a callback to that one delirious moment when they’d met?

Or was it a term of endearment? A pet name?

Zira shook his head. “Sleep well, my dear.”

His stomach fluttered as he realised he said ‘my dear’ in exactly the same tone as Crowley said ‘angel’. He didn’t know what it meant.

Probably meant nothing.

...Probably.

  


**♔**

  


Later that same night, Zira sat on the sofa that was now cleared of tartan blankets, back to its striped ivory shade. He held a thick leather-bound notebook, trying to write by the fluttering firelight, but instead he stared into its blazing depths, burning his vision gold.

He’d dared not check on Crowley once he got home – for two reasons.

The first obvious reason was that he didn’t want to wake Crowley if he was sleeping soundly, in a proper bed for the first time since the Witchfinder incident, whereupon he’d slept in Zira’s bed and Zira had slept in a different room. It was an undeniable fact that Crowley needed a good rest in order to heal.

The second, more difficult reason that Zira dared not disturb Crowley, was that he was worried he was starting to care about him a bit too much. Zira had always been a caring fellow, and never saw his empathy as a fault. He was proud that he could take an enemy under his wing and find ways to relate to him, cultivating what felt like a genuine friendship, despite their differences when it came to politics and upbringing. He was protective of a fellow human who happened to have a different life story, and he saw nothing wrong with that.

It was nice that Crowley liked him. It was flattering that the Knight wanted Zira close, and clearly appreciated his personal attention. Maybe even craved it.

It was scary, however, that Crowley was growing unwilling to be left alone without him. Zira had seen _panic_ in his eyes earlier.

Either it was all an evil plot to keep Zira away from the town... or the poor man was viscerally afraid of being alone. After his confession today, of what he’d done, what he’d _tried_ to do to himself... It hurt to think about. Maybe having company kept Crowley from wanting to cause himself further harm.

But this situation was not a permanent one. Zira was only living here until Crowley was healed and ready to move on – either he’d help the Resistance, then strike out on his own... or God forbid, go back to the Knights – but Zira had no intention for either of them to outstay their welcome at this estate.

Maybe Zira had been too kind.

By giving Crowley everything he needed, when he needed it, Zira had conditioned Crowley into thinking _Zira_ was needed – that he was _all_ Crowley needed. It seemed cruel. Especially because it wasn’t true. Crowley was the one who’d pulled through time and time again, willing to keep fighting to stay alive. All Zira had done was make it easier.

So, then! It was decided. The more distant Zira stayed, the better off they’d both be, once it came time to separate.

Zira was snapped from his reverie by a nearby thump, and a grunt of pain. He sat up straighter, head turned to the hallway, listening.

Soon the orange flick of a guttering candle caught his attention, and Zira rose from the sofa, going to the staircase, getting there just as Crowley reached the bottom.

“Crowley, what the Earth are you doing down here? I had Cook put your dinner in your room—”

“Just wanted some company, angel,” Crowley said wearily. His eyes were puffy with fatigue – either he’d just woken, or he’d been tossing and turning for hours and had given up without a wink of sleep. “All alone up there.”

Zira swallowed, fretting internally as he helped Crowley to the couch, limping and moving slow, but with Zira holding the candle’s drip tray, and half of Crowley’s weight, struggling less.

Crowley sat with a relieved sigh, slumped back, nape of his neck supported by the sofa back. He rested for a while, then peeked at Zira, who’d sat beside him.

“So,” Crowley said, sitting up, “what’re you doing?”

Zira flashed up a smile, then looked down, hand on his notebook. “Worrying.”

“About what?”

“About you.”

Crowley had such a soft look in his eyes as he gazed back. “What’s to worry about?”

“Well, for one thing... Why does it scare you when I leave, Crowley?” Zira asked. “What do you _do_ when I’m apart from you?”

Crowley lowered his eyes. “What _can_ I do? Wait for you to come back. Got nothing better to occupy my time. I mean, Lady Anathema’s pleasant enough company. But nobody else will even look at me.” He shrugged. Then he sucked in a breath and exclaimed, pointedly, “So! That very important coat of yours. You get a good one?”

“A very nice one, yes.”

Crowley bobbed his head approvingly.

They sat in silence for a while.

Then Crowley stretched a curious finger to poke the notebook. “What’s that? Fun read?”

Zira looked down at it. “I doubt it. It’s my journal.”

“You keep a journal?” Crowley brightened. “What do you write about?”

Zira hugged the book to his chest, staring at Crowley’s bare knee. “This won’t surprise you, but, recently...? You.”

“What do you say about me?”

“Oh, you know.”

“Do I?”

Zira felt heat in his cheeks, entirely unrelated to the fire’s respelendance.

Crowley nudged Zira’s thigh with the back of his hand. “Read me some?”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Zira said gruffly, shaking his head, smiling a little. “It’s too private.”

“Private, angel? After you _washed_ me today?”

“Yesterday, actually. It’s after midnight.”

“Point stands.”

Zira smiled. He cast his friend a sidelong look, tentative, expectant. “You really want to know?”

Crowley pursed his lips and nodded. He had such an easy manner about him now, sprawled over his half of the sofa, one elbow cocked up on its back.

Zira hummed, looking down at the book. “Well, if you insist...”

He blushed and blushed as he turned the pages, finding the most recent entry.

He paused there.

“Go oooonnn,” Crowley urged, grinning around his words.

“Alright, alright, I’m just... preparing myself. Emotionally.”

He drew a deep breath, let it go, and read, his voice a bit too high, “_I must be a fool_,” he began, voice going breathless right after, “_to trust him. But there’s no hatred in him when he looks at me, none at all. I can’t say I’ve always been the best judge of character, especially with people who turn out to be practised liars... but I already know what Anthony is. As far as I see it, he has no need to lie. Both he and I know he’s a bad man who’s done bad things, yet I find myself looking past that, wanting to... to understand why he did those things. Then again... to be completely honest, I don’t even think he is such a bad man anymore. I think he ceased to be a bad man a few minutes before we met. Now he’s just a man._”

Zira glanced at Crowley, expecting him to look amused, or embarrassed, or roll his eyes – anything.

But Crowley stared blankly at nothing, his face frozen. It stayed like that for almost ten seconds, no reaction at all.

Zira leaned in. “Crowley?”

Crowley didn’t move. Barely even breathed.

“Crowley?” Zira touched Crowley’s hand, and Crowley jumped, meeting his eyes.

“What?”

“Are you all right?”

Crowley wet his lips. “Um. Yeah. Yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Do... you want help getting back to bed?”

“All those stairs, again?” Crowley scooted half a foot along the couch, resting his head on Zira’s shoulder. “No thank you.”

Zira stared at him. Crowley’s hair was soft against Zira’s neck, a few single strands flickering with firelight. He smelled like soap and fresh red apples.

“Crowley?”

“Mm?” Crowley had shut his eyes.

Zira’s whisper came tumbling out, “What in God’s name are you doing right now?”

Crowley snuggled his cheek onto Zira’s shoulder. “Sleeping.”

It took several tense, uncertain minutes, but eventually Zira began to relax. He realised this was Crowley’s conscious response to the journal entry. Zira had told Crowley he trusted him, despite everything. And this was Crowley saying he felt the same.

Zira smiled for a while, staring into the fire like before. When he felt his eyelids drooping, he didn’t fight it, nor did he stir from his spot to get to bed. He let himself fall asleep, cheek resting on Crowley’s head.

So much for keeping their distance.

  


**♔**

  



	5. J is for Janice

Although the rolling grounds of the Device Estate remained plump with snow, on the morning exactly three weeks after Michael and Gabriel’s wedding, the sun rose in a cloudless sky. It was a cold sun, enough to cast a blinding golden sheen across unmarked whiteness, but with too little strength to melt anything but the frozen dewdrops on the ivy walls.

A sunroom bulged from one front section of the estate, where roses climbed the glass in summer, but now the vines encaged the white frame with no leaves, no blooms; just thorns. The outside may have looked uninviting, but inside, the conservatory was lush with houseplants. There was enough room for a loveseat and a rocking chair, both facing a tea table, away from the windows.

Crowley still sipped on his second cup of breakfast tea, sitting sideways in his loveseat, legs stretched out with that tartan blanket draped over him as he listened to Zira talk. He didn’t move much, as he was conserving his energy, but besides healing his leg, it was clear where his energy was spent.

“HAH!” he exclaimed at Zira, who rocked in his chair, nursing his own hot tea. “So you admit it!”

“I’m admitting to nothing,” Zira smiled. “I simply say that if one is going to engage the attention of certain woodland creatures, it pays to be protected.”

“You aaaare,” Crowley crooned. “You’re scared of squirrels.”

“I’m not _scared_, Crowley—”

“Hah,” Crowley said again, bright-eyed as he slurped his tea.

Zira shook his head fondly. It was marvellous to see the change that had come over Crowley in the passing weeks. Once he’d regained agency over his own basic care, he revealed himself to be a brash, loud, unapologetically argumentative soul. Somehow, that made him even more likable.

He also had a soft spot for plants, it seemed. His long fingers played with a fluffy fern frond as it crept over his shoulder, and he gave it several minutes of studious attention before remembering his tea, and then tossed the tea back in one shot.

The man was blooming. And Zira was beyond charmed.

“Do you still write that journal of yours?” Crowley asked, before burping quietly, fist to his lips.

“Hm? Oh. Yes. Why?”

“Whyyy do you call me ‘Anthony’ when you write?”

“...That _is_ your first name, isn’t it?”

“You call me ‘Crowley’ out loud.”

Zira glanced from the sunshine stripes on the rug to the glaze of gold caught on the roof lichen. “No reason,” he said innocently, examining the sparkles in his teacup.

“Liar,” Crowley purred.

“I just—!” Zira huffed. “If everyone calls you Crowley, then if my journal were ever seized by someone untrustworthy, at least there could be some question as to whether ‘Anthony’ is you or someone else.”

“Hm.” Crowley considered that, then deemed it, “Weak.”

Zira sighed dramatically. “_And_ I think it’s a particularly... handsome name. There, are you happy?!”

“Very.” Crowley gave a delicious grin, wrinkles forming beside his snake eyes. His smile softened, and he looked away, eyebrows raised as he drawled, “Can’t say I’d admit this to anyone else, angel, but ‘Anthony’ – it actually means ‘flower’.”

“Oh?”

“Weellll,” Crowley croaked, “It comes from the Greek ‘anthos’, referring to the anther of a flower. That’s the bit that has the pollen stuck to it.”

“How pretty.”

Crowley ignored that for a beat, but then started to smile, while pretending not to.

“You know,” Zira pondered, hands around his empty teacup, which was still warm, “I always thought my name sounded... Ah. I don’t know. It’s not like... like Terrence, or _Charles_, or Rupert, or those sorts of names. Just. Zira. To me it almost sounds... feminine.”

Crowley found this fascinating. His gaze met Zira’s and didn’t leave. “Does that bother you? Or did you like it? Wh-When you were younger, maybe...?”

Zira arched his lips and shook his head. “Obviously there were boys who thought it was terribly queer, but I suspect they thought that about _me_ as a whole rather than just my name. I suppose they did turn out to be right,” he added to himself. He gasped, babbling, “I— I— I mean— Um. I’m an odd one, that’s for certain. To be honest, I never minded it, the name. I thought it suited me. Still do.”

Crowley’s head tilted a bit, his gaze becoming even more intense. His tangled hair coiled upon his shoulder, his teacup forgotten in a relaxed hand.

“What?” Zira asked, eyes lifting to Crowley’s, then down. “Why does that interest you so much?”

“Who said it interests me?”

“You’re staring at me.”

“I always stare at you.”

“Yes,” Zira said quietly. “I have noticed.”

Crowley smiled. It wasn’t his usual snappy grin, nor one of his nervous grimaces. This was a gentle smile that shimmered on his surface like a sunbeam on a rippling pond, but showed depth. For a moment, Zira almost got a peek under the water.

“The ‘J’ stands for Janice,” Crowley said, suddenly.

Zira peered at him. “Oh? Does it really? A woman’s name?”

Crowley lowered his eyes, shrugging, looking away, still smiling. The sunlight caught his cheekbones and gave him a glowing outline. “Anthony Janice Crowley. That’s me.”

“You’re jesting, aren’t you,” Zira said, smug that he’d sussed out the joke.

Crowley swallowed. He pursed his lips and shrugged.

Was that a yes or a no?

It remained unclear.

But he offered Zira more tea from the teapot between them, and Zira accepted, absolutely ready to talk about the weather again.

They carried on as the sun rose higher, laughing, teasing, and at one point comparing the size of their hands, palm-to-palm.

Crowley leaned back again, a glow in his expression. His lithe hands went straight to his hair, and he began finger-combing it over one shoulder as Zira went on talking, recalling that moment in his teenage years when he’d actually thought he could’ve been a painter because he had “artist’s hands”.

“Aw,” Crowley said. “Why didn’t you?”

“Crowley, I couldn’t draw a bath, let alone a picture.”

Crowley threw his head back laughing, still combing through his hair when he sank forward once more. “By that standard there’s maids here with more talent than you.”

“I dare say there are,” Zira agreed. “Sometimes I do wonder how fair it all is,” he added, a frown creeping between his brows. “That I was born into _this_ world,” he nodded to the sunlight as it blanked out the glass with gold, “and others had to work harder than I ever have, just so their _children_ could... I don’t know. Cook my dinners. Wash my bedsheets. It’s all so backwards.”

Crowley sighed, staring at nothing, hands pulling rhythmically through that waterfall of red. He got stuck on a knot, and stayed there.

“Sometimes _I_ wonder,” Crowley said, his voice hollow and distant, “what it would be like to start over. Go from nothing again.”

“Give up your title, you mean?”

Crowley nodded. “Not just the Knighthood, but... everything. Become someone completely different. New face, new home, new cause. What good has being a Knight ever done me?”

Zira managed a small smile. “If only we could reset the world.”

“The world?” Crowley met Zira’s eyes. “The world’s fine, angel. It’s not even the people that are the problem. The problem is that we built a society where nobody can mind their own damn business. People should just pay attention to their own lives and stop interfering with how others tend to theirs.”

“S— So you’d want to ignore others’ suffering? Run away from it all, is that it? Say it’s someone else’s problem. Pretend the war’s not happening.”

“It’s not our war,” Crowley said, fussing with tangled hair again. “We’re _here_, angel, aren’t we? The war’s out there. It’s not about us, not anymore. And was it ever about us to begin with?”

Zira gritted his jaw. “There are people being _hurt_ out there. We can’t stay here forever. Whatever you are, Crowley, I can’t believe you’d be that selfish.”

“I tried,” Crowley breathed, a strain in his voice. He met Zira’s eyes, solemn and desperate. “I tried to help people and I only made it worse.”

“So you quit.”

“So I—” Crowley slumped back. “I took the only way I saw that led out.” He bowed his head, clawing through the tatty ends of his hair. “The only way I could think of that meant I wouldn’t be a tool anymore. Good, evil... I don’t know what the difference is anymore. I just didn’t want to start something and set off another wave of revenge attacks.”

Zira went quiet, mulling that over. He didn’t know whether attempting suicide under such circumstances was an act of bravery of cowardice, but, after a moment, he realised it wasn’t fair to judge. Crowley had hardly saved anyone’s life by deciding not to commit murder, but the fact remained: Michael and Gabriel were still alive because of Crowley’s choices. If the Duchess and Duke now did questionable things on their borrowed time, was that a stain on Crowley’s conscience? It seemed impossible to say.

Crowley kept on teasing his hair, and Zira realised it was both self-soothing and practical, as there were a good few knots to unravel.

“Wait here,” Zira said. He got up and left the conservatory. “I won’t be long.”

He came back a few minutes later, something hidden behind his back. “Close your eyes.”

Crowley didn’t. “What’ve you got?” he asked, wary.

“I thought you trusted me.”

“Not with suspicious surprises,” Crowley said, trying to lean around Zira’s middle to see what he hid.

“It’s a _nice_ surprise,” Zira said. “Promise.”

Crowley growled, sitting straight, giving Zira a long, steady look. But, then, he let his eyes fall shut.

Zira held out his hands. “Alright. You can look.”

Crowley opened his eyes, and started to smile. “A hairbrush?”

“Picked it up on a whim when I bought my coat. Completely slipped my mind that I had it.”

Crowley took it. It was a small, delicate black hairbrush with ceramic bristles, the back inlaid with fine white swirls and patterns like vines, the glossiness of seashells shimmering with rainbows in the light on each delicate leaf. Crowley’s lips hung open, admiring his gift, then looking up at Zira, eyes tracking him as he sat close beside him, thighs nudging up under Crowley’s bent knees. “You got this... for me?”

“Who else?” Zira shrugged.

Crowley thumbed through the white bristles, then – hesitantly – he set the brush into his hair, and began to comb it through. It glided smoothly, and only took a few small repeating movements to take out the knots.

He cast a soft look towards Zira. “Should I say... thank you?”

“Hm. Better not,” Zira admitted, holding his own hands.

Crowley kept brushing, and brushing. There was a relief that came of using a brush after so long without one, and greater still was the pleasure of having it be a particularly good brush.

Zira watched for a while, then asked, softly, “Do you want me to do it?”

Crowley looked at him. His lip bobbed. He bypassed the obvious question of why Zira asked, given that Crowley was obviously capable of combing his own hair, and neither did he ask whether Zira actually meant ‘_Please can I do it?_’ because they both knew the answer. So Crowley nodded, and handed Zira the brush.

Zira leaned closer, his middle pressing on the side of Crowley’s broken thigh. Crowley tipped his head forward, eyes shut as Zira began to groom him, one palm cradling a handful of hair, the other sinking the brush through, parting locks, making the ceramic bristles hiss as they slid down.

Zira tilted Crowley’s head this way and that, watching his friend’s serene smile, and the occasional shift of his eyes behind his lids. Crowley breathed slowly, growing more and more relaxed, basking in the just-warm sunlight.

They kept going for several minutes.

Soon there were no knots left to untangle. Crowley’s hair was parted and pretty and there was no reason to keep brushing, but Zira didn’t stop. Crowley seemed to twinge with delight when the bristles caressed his scalp, so Zira held his jaw and lifted his chin, dragging through that perfect parting just so he had something to fix. Crowley hummed low, and his lips parted; a quiet moan floated out. His exhale drifted closer and kissed Zira’s cheek with warmth.

Zira’s heart squeezed and sparkled, and he leaned a little closer, hoping to feel another breath.

Footsteps – pocks on the wood approaching the sunroom. In a panic Zira tossed the brush onto the sofa and stood up fast, making Crowley yelp in pain as his broken leg was knocked.

Yet Zira couldn’t close the distance between them to apologise; he was too busy flustering and straightening his waistcoat and fiddling with his shirt cuffs, as the maid came in to take their empty teapot and tray.

Crowley watched Zira’s turned back, while easing his broken leg back to stability with both hands.

The maid left with a curtsey. Crowley turned on Zira, about to ask what the Hell _that_ was about. What was wrong with brushing his hair? Why couldn’t anyone see?

It was all innocent, wasn’t it?

But Zira couldn’t even meet Crowley’s eyes, so Crowley said nothing.

“See you at lunch, I think,” Zira breathed, his words clipped with tension. “This w—” He gulped. “Very pleasant, thank you.” He hurried off, out of the sun and into the shadows of the vacant dining room.

Crowley stared after him.

Then he stared at the brush. He reached to touch it, lifting it to hold it. It was still hot from Zira’s hand.

  


**♔**

  


Despite the size of the house, Anathema generally lived alone at the Device Estate. She kept few staff compared to other nobility with assets of the same size; she had no butler, no footmen, no stable boy... Partially this was because she preferred to employ women, but the main reason was that she really didn’t need all the trimmings and trappings of affluence. So long as the place wasn’t too dusty, dinner was cooked, and there was a fireplace lit through the whole winter season, she could keep to the main rooms and leave the rest empty.

Often Anathema would entertain guests; Newton visited three times a week, as did the four children from Tadfield. Zira had come to stay just before the wedding and obviously hadn’t left after.

While, yes, Anathema was happily engaged to a commoner, there was something about having people of the gentry around that gave her vitality. The servants were friends of hers, and confidants, but she knew full well that they would always keep themselves to themselves whenever possible, and she hated the feeling she got when she was sitting, eating, reading, making notes about her ancestors’ big book of herbiary secrets, and Winnie was there, serving her. There would always be an unavoidable class divide between them, inevitably stymying the development of a balanced relationship – whereas that divide was absent in the company of Zira, or, more recently, Crowley.

The three of them gathered in the dining room for a meal one evening, the sliding doors to the conservatory pulled shut after a day thrown open. Zira helped Crowley to take a seat at the table.

Anathema was the first to smile, remarking to Crowley, “Your hair looks great.” She grinned when he glanced at her. “You do something different?”

Crowley’s eyes shot to Zira, but Zira sat down opposite him and didn’t react.

“Um. I, um.” Crowley put on a smile. “I... brushed it.”

“Oh yeah?” Anathema beamed. “Should do that more often.”

Crowley wore an embarrassed smile, bowing his head to look at his empty plate as Cook Li Na filled it with roast beef and boiled potatoes and green beans.

Their dinners were just starting to become a regular thing; Crowley had now enjoyed two days being able to move between rooms freely. He needed Zira’s help every time, but no longer was he confined to having dinner wherever he’d sat down.

Still, they were not formal dinners. They were candlelit and there was a holly-leaf centerpiece at the end of the table where the trio crowded themselves, but besides that, there were no firm rules about what was and wasn’t allowed. So Anathema busied herself opening her evening mail, fork in one hand, mail in the other.

She’d noticed that her distraction left Zira and Crowley free to talk, but as heated as their discussions got, and how squeaky Zira’s voice became, and how many times Crowley dropped his fork and opened his hands to insist that yes, seriously, the pupils of a sheep’s eyes _are_ at a different angle to a snake’s eyes – they would both go silent at seemingly random moments, sometimes halfway through sentences, as if they were censoring the words that came next. For the most part, Zira finished his sentences the way he finished food: not a crumb remained. Thus, ending a sentence with “Well, either way, a snake’s eyes _are_ much more han—” was... unusual. Concerning, even.

Anathema swept her letter away from her face, giving Zira a close look.

He looked guilty. Guilty and very absorbed by his dinner all of a sudden.

Crowley was smirking. Staring at Zira. Chin on a hand. Food forgotten.

“Should I ask?” Anathema tried.

Zira looked up, mouth full. “Hm? Hm. Nn.” He swallowed. “Oh, I just got distracted. _Delicious_ food! Absolutely scrumptious. Remind me to thank Cook when I see her next.”

Anathema shook her head in amused dismissal, returning to her mail. She used her knife to open up an envelope, pinching out a paper from inside.

“Oh, this one’s for you,” she realised, passing it to Zira. “Didn’t read the name on the front, sorry.”

“Not to worry,” Zira said, lifting the paper. He examined it, then hummed in annoyance. “All these bills. I had my local post office forward my mail here to Highworth, given my stay is rather extended – but all I’ve received so far are invoices for my bookshop’s recurring expenses. Except, of course, I haven’t been back to turn a profit.” He sighed, folding up the paper and shifting it back to Anathema. “Not that I don’t adore it here, but I do _miss_ that bookshop so.”

Crowley spoke with one cheek bulging, still chewing, “If you want to go back to your bookshop so badly, why are you still here?”

“You know why I’m here, Crowley, I’m looking after you.”

“Well, yeah, I know _that_.” Crowley took a sip of his red wine, eyes on Zira. “But.” He leaned closer over the table, rubbing the base of his wine glass against the side of Zira’s, making both sing. “You still haven’t told me why you’re doing this. Why... care for me? And not just because you’d do the same for anyone. You’re an angel, I know you would. But... Zira... why _me_?”

The lighthearted tease faded out of his voice by the time he finished asking. He genuinely wanted to know, and asking made him emotional.

Zira put down his fork, tines to the plate. He touched his lips with his napkin, gazing at Crowley’s hands. He drew a breath, then looked the Black Knight in the eyes.

“_Because_,” Zira said. “Crowley...” There were stars in his eyes. “You’re my ffr...”

Another sentence left unfinished.

Anathema got the distinct feeling that it was only her who didn’t hear the rest, although it wasn’t hard to guess. Zira and Crowley gazed at each other. A slow, shy smile started on Zira’s lips and ended up shining in Crowley’s eyes.

Crowley soon dipped his head and got back to his food.

Whatever the answer was, he was satisfied.

  


**♔**

  



	6. Good Hug, Big Fern, Small Friends

Doctor Loquacious had said it would be a month until Crowley could walk again, and according to Crowley, that meant he was behind schedule. Today was the fortieth day he’d been at the Device Estate, and all he could do was wobble.

The supportive poles were gone, the banadages were off, and he was wearing Zira’s brown trousers and a frilly red bell-sleeved shirt – but _looking_ like he had a fully-functioning body and actually _having_ one were totally different things.

The fireplace in the living room burned low in the mid-afternoon, giving off a residual warmth, crackling occasionally. Chills poured down from the window panes, and Crowley had stumbled his way over there a few times, leaning against the darkwood meeting table to look out over the snow, admiring the blue sky, then had stumbled back to the sofa whenever Wignall the driver came past with a wheelbarrow or a horse.

Crowley had once made eye contact with the driver through the window, and didn’t feel inclined to repeat that mistake. Suffice to say, Wignall didn’t seem very happy Crowley was where he was. Inside the house, standing at the window – or alive at all, it was impossible to say. But a thick, gluey discomfort lingered in Crowley’s belly, halfway between guilt and fear. Wignall’s hatred wasn’t surprising, really. Anathema may have welcomed a Black Knight into her home, and her staff were under obligation to follow suit in order to do their jobs, but that didn’t mean they’d share her opinions.

After a long rest, leaning against a side table, Crowley growled and thrust his hips forward, following with his chest and tipped-back head. He looked forward and took several slow, careful paces towards the sofa, one hand outstretched to catch himself if he were to fall again. Thanks to Anathema’s green mixture, applied twice daily, his leg didn’t ache too much overall, but hitting the ground always hurt.

Three more steps to go...

Easy does it...

Zira walked in, announcing, “I suspect you finished reading the stack I gave you last week, so I dug deeper into the shelf this time—” He froze when he saw Crowley upright and trembling. He gasped and tossed the book pile onto the sofa, rushing to Crowley’s side. But he didn’t grab him, just hovered.

“Crowley! Y... You’re walking!”

Crowley gave a strained smile, working on taking another step. He breathed shakily, voice disturbed as he joked, “You – call this... walking?”

Zira held a hand just under Crowley’s forearm, ready to catch him.

They walked slowly. To the couch. Then _past_ it.

Until this moment, Crowley hadn’t taken this many steps all at once. But he pushed himself. Zira was here and he looked so _eager_...

Crowley’s legs screamed at him to please, _please_ sit down, but he took another step, and another...

Zira could see he was struggling, those shakes becoming more urgent. “Maybe let’s take a break now,” he suggested lightly, jerking closer as Crowley almost fell but didn’t. “Save your strength...”

“Been... savinhhh... stren...thhhh... Now gotta... spehh... spend ih—” Crowley’s legs gave out and he toppled low, but Zira swept him high again, arms around his waist, hauling him back to his feet, gripping his back with both hands. Crowley rested on Zira’s chest, forehead on his shoulder, supporting almost none of his own weight. Zira was stronger than he looked.

They breathed heavily for a while, just holding tight, Crowley shaking, Zira keeping him steady.

After a bit, Crowley drew a breath and leaned back, taking some of his own weight again. Their eyes met from inches away.

Zira’s eyes were ashine with mirth.

Crowley looked back and realised he’d walked twelve steps without help. He started to grin. He huffed a laugh, then met Zira’s eyes again, and they laughed together, throwing themselves into a hug, a _tight_ hug, Crowley’s arms around Zira’s neck, Zira’s around Crowley’s waist. They swayed and rocked, laughs turning to hums... then soft, smiling breaths.

Without really noticing, Crowley shut his eyes, cheek against Zira’s ear. He breathed out gently, relaxing.

This was nice.

Soft.

Warm.

Zira smelled like the marzipan icing from the top of birthday cakes. That was... pleasant.

Zira’s arms wound even tighter around Crowley’s slim waist. Zira hummed a note of contentment, nudging his head to Crowley’s.

Perhaps it was merely a testament to Crowley’s fatigue, but he truly did not know how long they stood there, embracing. His mind went perfectly blank, like that quiet zone of peace he enjoyed just before falling asleep. It didn’t have to be a conscious awareness, in so many words, but it was an awareness nonetheless: he felt absolutely safe in Zira’s arms. Nothing and nobody could hurt him here. Not the Black Knights, not the Resistance, not Wignall, and certainly not Crowley himself. He hadn’t felt such a thing in... too long. Far too long.

He swallowed, blinking back unexpected tears.

He held on to Zira a bit longer, because Zira hadn’t indicated he wanted to let go, and Crowley wasn’t one to resist a good thing when it was freely given.

It was only when Crowley drew a deep, involuntary breath that Zira gasped and jerked back, abruptly coming to his senses. “Yes. Well done! Very well done,” he said, as if the sun hadn’t practically tiptoed twice across the sky while they’d been hugging. “_Definitely_ time for a break.”

He held Crowley’s hand and helped him to the sofa, where Crowley collapsed with a grunt, too exhausted to even say thanks.

“Now you wait here,” Zira said, probably wagging a finger. “I have something special for you.”

“More books, angel?” Crowley side-eyed the collapsed pile he shared a seat with. “I hate reading.”

“For someone who hates reading, you do a lot of it,” Zira said, having only recently reshelved all fifteen of the novels Crowley had annotated in the margins with editorial opinions and lewd ideas as to the characters’ motives. “Don’t worry,” he added, “it’s not a book.”

He left for another room. Crowley leaned back and kept his eyes on the opening to the hallway, waiting for that pottering shadow to return.

Yet the shadow that approached was not shaped like Zira.

Crowley was mid-frown when Zira entered. The frown lifted. Crowley laughed.

Zira carried a huge Boston fern, lavish and green, looking like a bushy explosion of leaves from Zira’s heart.

“For you,” Zira said, putting the fern’s pot on Crowley’s snack table. “So you’ll have someone to talk to.”

Crowley stroked a leaf, but eyed his friend. “Can’t I talk to _you_ anymore?”

“Of course you can! Nothing will change that. I just thought... Well. I find opening my heart to a private journal helps me be more forthcoming. I can sort through my thoughts better. You rejected my idea of starting your own journal, because – and I quote – you ‘don’t write unless forced to’... so perhaps if you had another outlet...”

Crowley snuffled at him. “You really expect me to _converse_ with this thing?”

“You don’t have to,” Zira said. “I just want to make sure you’re not alone. That’s all.” He cleared a space beside Crowley to sit, holding all the books on his lap and looking over hopefully. “Maybe there’s things on your mind that you... you don’t want to tell me. Or can’t tell me. Or you’re not ready to share. But—” he glanced at the plant, “someone always cares enough to listen.”

Crowley snorted, folding his arms. “If you’re trying to pry Black Knight secrets out of me, angel, and eavesdrop—”

“Oh, Crowley, no.” Zira set aside the books, rotating his torso to face Crowley. “No.” He sighed. “You seem to like plants, so I simply thought— Look, never mind. It was a silly idea.” He moved to perch at the edge of the sofa. “Do you want something to eat now? It’s nearly tea time.”

Grumpy and incredulous as he was, Crowley forced a shoulder up, which meant yes. Zira smiled, touched his knee, then got up to leave.

Crowley glowered at the fading fire. Then glowered at the plant. “I’m not talking to you,” he told it, once Zira was far away. “Who talks to plants, anyway? That’s mad. I’d have to be mad.”

He half-expected the plant to apologise for Zira’s presumptuous suggestions.

But the plant said nothing back, which was... reassuring.

Not too long after he’d left, Zira climbed the stairs from the kitchen, a big tray of Cook Li Na’s best sandwiches held in both hands. He hummed to himself as he backed into the swinging door to the hallway, and he made his way to the living room. His bouncing tum-te-tums fell silent, as he heard a voice.

Crowley’s voice.

“_Frail,_” Crowley said in distaste. “_Look at you. What’s that under there? Dead leaf! Dead leaf! A whole frond. How do you live with yourself? You disgust me._”

Zira paused just before his shadow could breach the doorway. His heart had sunk to his belly, dismayed that Crowley didn’t like the plant. It was meant to improve his life, not annoy him.

Zira drew a breath, ready to enter and take the plant away again, when he heard Crowley speak again.

“_But you can get better,_” he said... not softer, exactly, but with a questioning tone, as if asking if it were possible. “_Grow better. You will. Or so help me._” He breathed out, a sad sigh. “_Someday, you bastard, you’re going to be the most beautiful, luxuriant, verdant fern that ever existed. Is that what you want? Yeah? Yeah? Oh yeah? Then – gROW! BETAAAAAAH._”

Zira almost dropped his tray. “_Crow_-ley!” he chided, striding into the living room, all cross. “Be _nice_!”

“Nice? I’m not nice. I’m never nice. Nice is a four-letter-word.”

“_You’ll_ be a four-letter-word if you don’t stop _shouting_ at that poor, innocent fern.”

“You gave it to me to yell at.”

“I did no such thing, I gave it to you to—” Zira slammed the tray down on the side table. He seethed for a moment, then snorted. “Well. I suppose I did, didn’t I.”

Crowley sulked, arms folded, jaw stiff.

Zira rolled his eyes and brought some sandwiches over on plates, handing one to his friend. “Does shouting make you feel better?”

A whole entire sandwich filled Crowley’s mouth so he couldn’t speak.

Zira sat and watched Crowley, his own sandwich in hand, uneaten but for one mouthful. Zira chewed, swallowed, then let his shoulders slump. “_I_ think it’s a very beautiful fern,” he said quietly.

Crowley grunted.

“Really.” Zira nodded. “I’m sure there’s... room for improvement? Goals to reach. Greener leaves. Bushier fronds. All of that. But where you see an imperfect fern, I just see a fern, Crowley. A special fern. A fern that’s – that’s already beautiful.” He gave Crowley his sweetest, most dewy-eyed smile. “Exactly the way it is, whatever point it’s at on its journey.”

For a moment Crowley looked comforted, but then bothered, and he scowled at his second sandwich, plucking out a cucumber slice. “Whatever, angel.”

“...Whatever,” Zira echoed, somewhat defeated.

There came the fast swishing of heavy skirts and heeled shoes – Zira turned and saw Anathema striding the hallway, smiling as she went to the door.

“The kids are here!” she called brightly. “I thought I’d let them play in the snow while the sun’s still up—” She beckoned to Crowley and Zira. “Come on, you two! Eat outside with us, Cook’s bringing hot drinks. Winnie— Oh, Winnie, bring their food out for them, would you? Thanks, sweetie.”

Zira made a sound of astonishment, but when Winnie stole the tray of sandwiches and took them outside, he supposed he didn’t have much choice. He got up to follow the food. Then he remembered Crowley, and stepped back to pick up a blanket.

“Come on, then, you old silly,” Zira said, offering both hands to Crowley.

Crowley grumbled, but took Zira’s hands, and allowed himself to be wrapped in a familiar half-hug, hobbling together to the door. Zira paused before they stepped out, tucking that tartan blanket over and around Crowley’s shoulders, then they went out, slapped in the face by cold.

“Ngk,” Crowley said, unsteady on the icy steps. Zira was especially careful helping him down. “So _bright_ out here.”

“Well, you have been cooped up in the dark for over a month,” Zira said, following Anathema’s footprints towards an outdoor dining table, which was clear of snow because hot lanterns had been placed at the four corners. “Maybe you could do with some sunglasses.”

There were tracks on the driveway from a hansom cab, which had already left. Hansom cabs only fit two adult passengers, but four eleven-year-old children fit the same space without trouble. The foursome played fast on what ought to be a lawn, their little dog yapping and chasing them up and down through the snow.

“Hey, kids, you want some hot chocolate?” Anathema called, hugging her blue coat around her. “Cook made it special!”

Cook Li Na looked very unprepared for the snow, stepping uncertainly and huffing clouds as her button-nose turned red, and her narrow eyes became narrower against the glare. She set down a tray of seven mugs, all topped with swirls of cream and a curl of chocolate.

“I say!” Zira cried. “Exquisite! You really are the best cook in the country.”

Cook beamed at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“Why don’t you put your feet up by the fire,” Anathema said kindly to the cook. She winked. “We’re all out here, nobody’ll notice.”

Cook left, looking pleased. She took her apron off as she headed inside.

The kids finally came to sit, all arush with breath and ruddy cheeks, save the one girl, whose dark skin showed no reaction to the cold. But her breath came out clouded all the same.

“Kids, this is Crowley,” Anathema said. “And Crowley, this is Adam,” she went on, looking at Crowley and patting the head of the curly-haired boy beside her. “Brian.” Dark hair, pale skin, freckles, sauce on his cheeks from a sandwich that didn’t even contain sauce. “Wensleydale, Wensley for short.” Wensleydale poked a pair of spectacles up his nose. “And Pepper.” The girl. Bushy black hair, a disdainful expression.

Pepper looked especially unimpressed with Crowley. “So you’re the sick guest who’s been avoiding us for a month.”

“He wasn’t avoiding you, honey,” Anathema said softly. “And he’s not sick, he’s wounded. I thought maybe having all of you around would be a bit... _much_.”

“Too _boisterous_?” Pepper asked Anathema, accusingly.

Anathema wrinkled her nose in a smile. “Just a touch.”

“I can handle a few kids,” Crowley said brashly, stuffing half a sandwich into his mouth. “What’re you gonna do, eat me alive?”

“We should be asking you that,” said the child named Adam. “You’re the Black Knight everyone around here’s looking for, aren’t you?”

Crowley gulped. “What. What gives you that idea.”

Anathema smiled. She didn’t seem worried that the kids had caught on. Even Zira, who apparently knew the children already, didn’t look remotely fazed.

“Sword tattoo,” Adam said.

“Yellow eyes,” Wensley said.

“Look like snake eyes,” Brian said.

“And,” Pepper said matter-of-factly, “everyone _knows_ there’s a yellow-eyed man-eating transmogrifying Black Knight cat beast out here. Luckily _I’m_ safe, because _I’m_ not a man.”

“Actually, we’re not men either,” Wensley pointed out. “We’re children. And if this man here is the beast then the only person at this table who’s in danger is _you_.” He looked at Zira.

Crowley also looked at Zira, curious.

Zira looked back at Crowley, soft-eyed and smiling. “Even if he does eat men, I don’t think I have much to worry about,” Zira said.

“_That’s_ stupid,” Pepper said. “You can’t trust a Black Knight. Even if he pretends to be nice to you.”

Crowley pouted. He didn’t know how to feel about that. Half of him wanted to say, ‘_Oi! I’m not _nice_ to anyone_’, but the other half wanted to say ‘_Oi! I’ve been genuinely courteous to Zira, how dare you insinuate otherwise_’, but the only thing that made it out of his mouth was, “Oi!”

“We’ll keep your secret, Sir Crowley,” Adam said firmly. “And we won’t tell anybody you’re here. But only as long as you don’t hurt anyone we care about.”

Anathema shook her head, sucking whipped cream off her thumb. “_Nobody_ here has anything to worry about,” she said. “Sir Zira and I, we’ve been... keeping a close watch on our Knight here. Haven’t we. Making sure he doesn’t... transform into some murderous monster overnight.” There was amusement in her eyes as she looked at Crowley, but also a veiled threat. If he dared even _think_ about hurting anyone, he wouldn’t live to see the morning.

Crowley let her threat waft over him, as it was different coming from her than, say, Wignall. Anathema expected the best from Crowley. Wignall assumed the worst. But either way, Crowley didn’t have any fight left in him. He hunched over his hot chocolate, sipping it sometimes, wondering if he’d had any fight in him to begin with. Maybe he’d never been what people thought he was.

No, scratch that. No ‘maybe’.

He definitely wasn’t what people thought he was.

And, God _Almighty_, did he wish things could be different.

  


**♔**

  


Once the children had finished eating, then playing, and Anathema had provided a few hours of tutoring in the dining room, the house was left quiet and still, as she accompanied her young friends to Tadfield in her carriage.

Only the maids made any noise, stoking the fireplaces in the living room, then the bedrooms upstairs, ready for the oncoming night.

Zira sat on the footstool by the sofa, writing in his journal. Crowley pretended to read a book, but stared past the page, his mind adrift in speculative thoughts.

He had trouble imagining what was to come next. In an hour, maybe, he could envision going with Zira up to bed, wobbling his way into new underwear while Zira looked away but remained close, and then saying goodnight and parting ways until morning. In six hours, Crowley supposed he’d be deeply asleep.

Tomorrow... that was harder. He could only guess it would be like today but slightly different. Easier, harder; it wasn’t a given. Sometimes his leg felt stronger than other days; sometimes domestic occurrences arrived in a varying order. Or maybe the Black Knights would storm the place and capture everyone here, it wasn’t possible to know. But guesses about tomorrow could be made with a fair amount of accuracy.

Next week? Crowley drew a blank. He couldn’t even figure out what shape the blankness was.

And to imagine what his life would look like, this time next year... Laughable.

Crowley had been alive forty-eight years and yet had no grasp of what a year would bring. Forty-eight cycles of change had taught him that whatever he expected, he’d be wrong.

But he wanted to imagine things being different. If he couldn’t fantasise about a bright future... then what if everything was the same as today, but certain details were skewed? What if he’d enjoyed his hot chocolate with his new friends but his eyes were a normal shade of brown? What if Crowley was soft-spoken and pretty? What if he and Zira weren’t on opposite sides...?

What if...?

Crowley watched Zira writing.

Mind lost in a haze of firelight and fantasy, Crowley let warmth overtake, and he imagined himself leaning in... and putting a... a little kiss? just on the edge of Zira’s lips...

Oh— Heat flooded Crowley’s chest and belly, and he tensed, looking away fast, wishing the roof would come down and weeks’ worth of snow would drench him in ice-cold reality.

“Hm?” Zira looked up. “What’s wrong, my dear?”

Crowley’s chest ached with pleasure. _My dear._ Oh, how he loved that his angel called him that. He didn’t call anyone else that. He said it rarely, but when he did...

Maybe Crowley’s guilty fantasies weren’t so far-fetched.

“Nothing’s wrong, angel,” Crowley murmured, looking down, scrunching his hair into the palm of his hand, his elbow propped on the sofa’s armrest. His tilted his eyes back to Zira, smiling fondly. “In fact, it’s... it’s almost all right.”

“Almost?”

“Almost.”

Zira slowly closed his journal, capping his pen without looking. “Well then. What would make it perfect?”

Crowley gazed at him for a while, head tilted all the way into his hand. His chest was still buzzing with affection, so much that it hurt.

“Angel... I hope I’m not out of line here, but...” Crowley swallowed. “When you... you look at me, do you... ever... wonder... if...”

The front door opened, and Lady Anathema rushed in with a billowing gust of wind and a smattering of snowflakes. She pushed the door shut, then exhaled in relief. She wore a smile, the white flecks in her damp hair melting away as she strode straight for the fire. “Heyy, you two! Ooh, it’s toasty in here, huh.”

“Hallo, did the children get home all right?” Zira asked, standing up to warm Anathema’s hands as she took off her gloves; his journal and Crowley were abandoned for a moment.

“Oh— Oh, yeah,” Anathema said, as if she’d forgotten why she went out. She patted her coat pockets, one, two, then undid her waist tie and reached to an inside pocket, bringing out a slim rectangular box, the length of her hand.

“These are for you,” she said, handing the container to Crowley. “Figured you needed them.”

Crowley thumbed at the carved box, then realised it opened on a hinge. Inside was a red velvet pillow, on which slept a shiny new pair of glasses.

Between a finger and thumb, Crowley lifted the spectacles out, and saw as the fire dimmed behind the lenses that they were tinted glass. Sunglasses. They had silver sides, and big, round-ish lenses, and as Crowley opened them up, he decided they were the greatest things ever.

“Thank you,” he said, amazed. He looked up at Lady Anathema, shaking his head. “W-Wh-Why—?”

Zira answered, “Can’t have anyone recognising your eyes, can we? You’re either wanted as a Black Knight or a man-eating, shape-shifting panther, apparently, and neither sounds like a fun thing to be.”

“Plus the snow,” Anathema said. “It’s pretty bright. And since you’re going outside these days...”

Crowley turned the sunglasses around and slid them onto his face. He grinned when they felt _just right_, like they’d always been there.

“Perfect,” Anathema said, content. “Okay! I’m going to steal some food from the kitchens and get myself to bed. Don’t stay up too late, either of you.”

She leaned to kiss Zira on the cheek before turning to go. Crowley was suddenly doubly grateful for the sunglasses, as neither Zira nor Anathema saw the flash of jealousy that crossed him, followed by self-hatred and a desperate, _desperate_ craving to be allowed to do what Anathema had just done with so much ease.

Crowley hung his head, hissing a little as he clawed his hands back through his long hair, tousling it, trying to calm himself. He was going mad, surely. No matter what he wanted to be, he was what he was, at least in the eyes of others. And a demon like him had no right to put kisses on the cheeks of angels.

“They do look marvellous, Crowley, don’t worry,” Zira said encouragingly, misinterpreting Crowley’s distress. “Oh! Tell you what, I’ll find you a mirror. Won’t be two ticks!”

He went off and trotted up the stairs.

Crowley sat alone, hands under his glasses, fingers over his eyes. The world became dark for him, as it was meant to be. He didn’t deserve the light that was Zira. Nor generous friends like Anathema. He didn’t deserve their protection. He didn’t deserve anything. How dare he want _more_ from Zira, when he’d taken so much already? He couldn’t believe what he’d been seconds from asking. _Do you ever wonder if you and I, in some other time, some other world, where everything is different... we might be lovers?_ He must be delirious. He must be. He’d never truly cared for anyone or anything, so how could it have come to this? Why— _How_ could he feel so strongly about—

Zira returned, and Crowley’s emotions hid back where they belonged.

“Ta-daaa!” Zira gave Crowley an ornate looking-glass with a handle, about the size of Crowley’s face.

Crowley held the mirror, and looked into it. Lips parted. The sunglasses suited his face, and the flaming flash of bronze on the edge as he turned his head was satisfying to behold. As little as he missed his armour, he’d missed the cool touch of metal. He liked metal.

Zira took his place on the footstool. Crowley saw his smile from the corner of his eye.

But all of Crowley’s attention was on his own face. He hadn’t seen himself since before his great fall. He looked different.

He took off the sunglasses and looked again...

Different.

Older, wiser?

No.

Softer... Hopeful?

Not that either.

Discontent.

That was all.

Discontent.

Separated from his sworn duty for the first time in years, what had Crowley become? Dependent. Then, slowly, he moved towards being independent again. He’d grown more aware and at ease with every personal need and want he harboured. Which only made it obvious: there were things he’d always wanted, secretly, but he’d never dared turn his attention to them before.

He set his free hand into his hair, caressing it. All of Crowley’s hair had grown an inch and he’d only just noticed. He twisted it. He tried to pull it back. But with one hand holding the mirror’s handle, it was impossible.

Zira took the mirror from him, holding it up so Crowley could play with his hair. Eyes on his reflection, Crowley tousled and turned and plaited and grasped, scrunching, puffing, pushing and tucking.

But he let his hands down, and his hair slumped to his shoulders, as boring and straight and unstyled as it was before.

Zira remained silent through all this. He’d paid enough attention to understand what Crowley was bothered by, but through no fault of Zira’s own, he didn’t know _why_ Crowley was so bothered.

Neither did he know what to do about it.

That night, they parted ways in Crowley’s bedroom, wishing each other sweet dreams. Crowley put his folded sunglasses on the bedside table, and lay back, now directing his discontent solely to the heavy drapery over his four-poster bed.

And, after several hesitations, unsaid words, and withheld affections, Zira went back to his own room, taking the looking-glass with him.

A discontent of his own had started to brew, a near-perfect mirror for Crowley’s.

  


**♔**

  



	7. Black Is Your Colour

A number of days slipped past; Zira wasn’t counting. As he no longer ran his life by the breathing pattern of his bookshop, he ran it by Crowley’s instead. Crowley was taking life one day at a time, so Zira did the same.

Crowley could walk by himself now. Zira would catch him pacing, slowly, back and forth across the conservatory, or going up and down the stairs a few times just to check he could.

But there were times when his legs buckled and he would fall. Thankfully it only happened when he got close to Zira, so he hadn’t hit the ground yet. It was almost as if he was trying especially hard the rest of the time, but once in proximity of Zira’s grasp, his body gave out, knowing it was safe to do so.

Privately, hiding his smiles as he did, Zira entertained the fantasy that Crowley just enjoyed being held, and clung to Zira not just for physical support, but for emotional pleasure too. Maybe he wanted hugs and had found an easy way to get them.

But that was balderdash. Zira knew it, knew it well, and reinforced that knowledge to himself every time Crowley caught his breath, whispered his thanks, and eased himself away, hesitantly, as if he might fall again.

Zira may or may not have taken to lingering near Crowley whenever he stood up, under the pretence of being there in case he fell, when in actual fact, he was there for _exactly_ that reason.

He wondered if they’d accidentally constructed an intricate ritual that allowed them to touch one another.

Hogwash.

Definitely.

Still, whether Crowley was faking a slow recovery or not, there was no denying that he was still healing. His fatigue showed in every movement he made by the time they got up to his bedroom each night; the skin under his eyes was dark, his steps stiff.

“Come on, now, almost there,” Zira said, helping Crowley turn around and sit on the edge of his bed. “I’ll close the curtains, you get undressed.”

They parted ways for a minute or two, Zira also taking the liberty of lighting a beeswax candle, then jabbing an iron poker at the fireplace, loosening a log and sending up a spray of red sparks.

Zira returned to the bed. Crowley had undressed to his underwear, and now lay back, massaging Anathema’s painkiller on his thigh. He groaned, then shut his eyes as Zira cleaned his hands for him with a wet cloth.

Crowley bumped himself backwards, propping up a pillow and leaning on the headboard rather than lying down. Zira tucked his legs in, but before he could say goodnight, Crowley took a breath to speak.

“Angel... What would you do,” he asked, tiredly, one hand sweeping his red locks to fall voluminously over one shoulder, yellow eyes flashing with the firelight, “if you didn’t have to be... everything that you are?”

Zira tipped a jug and filled a glass of water by Crowley’s bed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean— What would you do with your life? If you had the power to alter reality around you. What would you do if you weren’t a Baronet? If you weren’t part of the Resistance, if you weren’t forced to choose a side. If—” Crowley wet his lips. “If you didn’t _have_ to be a man. If you weren’t so devoted to... looking after me.” He looked down at his bent knees and admitted, “These days I can barely think about anything else but what I wish were different.”

“I know for a fact what I’d be doing: I’d be tending to my bookshop,” Zira said.

“That’s all?”

“Does that disappoint you?” Zira smiled. “I do like a quiet, private life. And I adore books.”

Crowley seemed fretful, sucking on his lower lip, gazing at nothing.

Zira sat on the side of the bed, his ribs pressing Crowley’s right thigh. “Why,” Zira asked, “What would you do?”

Crowley wore a faintly hopeful smile. He met Zira’s eyes and said, “Think I’d want to – I don’t know... leave everything behind. Go off somewhere. Go everywhere. See everything as fast as possible before it’s all over. There’s a whole world out there I haven’t seen, angel – that _you_ haven’t seen – and we’re both missing it.”

“Hurrying around everywhere sounds exhausting,” Zira remarked, making Crowley smile.

“Perhaps.” Crowley held his gaze for a while, then added, softly, “Maybe I’d... slow down once in a while. Visit a bookshop.” He popped the last ‘p’ between his lips.

“Indeed,” Zira nodded sagely. “You know... I could potentially be... _tempted_ into going out once in a while. See something new. So long as I was in good company, of course.”

He lowered his eyes, feeling them wrinkle with his smile. He knew Crowley was smiling too. With warmth in his heart and in his voice, Zira reached to touch Crowley’s chest. “Goodnight, Crowley.”

Crowley breathed out. “‘Night, angel.”

Zira got up to leave.

“Ah— Wait—” Crowley reached out, taking Zira’s hand. He held on. Zira sat down again, looking into Crowley’s nervous eyes.

Crowley hesitated, then slid his torso down his plumped pillow and got comfortable in bed – never breaking eye contact, still holding Zira’s hand. His thumb stroked the side of Zira’s hand a few times.

Zira lingered for a few moments longer. He couldn’t help it. His heart was drawn to Crowley – spiritually, yes, but physically, too...

He stood up, craning his torso over his friend. He gazed down at him, hand cupping his bony cheek...

Zira shut his eyes, leaned down, and gave Crowley a long kiss on the forehead, breathing out in relief as he did.

He pulled away – face and hands and body – and looked back at Crowley for just long enough to see him shocked, happy, a hand flying to his forehead to touch the spot they’d made contact. Crowley’s grin was shaky.

Before Crowley dared speak, Zira breathed, “Sleep well, my dear,” and exited the room, head down, smiling as he shut the door behind him.

Crowley remained clutching his forehead, rolling onto his side to stare into the fire. He grinned, heart blaze. He grinned again, rolling to press his burning face to the cool sheets, laughing, seeing light where he’d grown used to darkness.

  


**♔**

  


Zira wasn’t dressed for breakfast yet, but he was decent enough to roam the hallways: he wore a thick brown banyan robe with golden lapels, finely embroidered, and tied at the waist. As unlikely as it seemed, there were more pressing matters than food at present.

“Crowley...?”

Zira peered into the third empty bedroom, but it was as tranquil, sun-drenched, and unoccupied as the previous two.

See, the two of them had an unspoken arrangement. They were woken daily by a knock on their doors by the same maid at the same time, and Crowley often needed supervision on the stairs, so there was no reason not to wait for each other to use the toilet and wash and dress before descending to breakfast together. If Crowley was not in his own bedroom, that meant he was somewhere else on the upper levels.

All the bedrooms Zira checked were empty, so he ascended a curled staircase at the end and made his way along another hallway, opening every door.

“Crowley? Where the devil are you? In here? No...?”

Bedrooms were interspersed with storage closets, or hidden bookcases, or bathrooms. Zira counted two more bedrooms, a shoe closet (Lady Anathema had a lot of very similar-looking boots), a cleaning closet, and then—

He opened the door to a wooden-walled, uncarpeted eight-foot-square room with a slim window running the top of the back wall. Sun poured through the branches of an old tree, dappled and dancing over an open wardrobe on the right, and then Crowley, his svelte figure swaying in front of a floor-length mirror beside a vanity on the left, his hands pressing a black dress to his chest – one of Anathema’s. He turned this way and that, trying to see what he’d look like wearing it. He seemed happy.

“_Oh_,” Zira whispered.

Crowley’s eyes shot to him, seeing Zira in the doorway with his hand on the doorknob. In a panic, Crowley hid the dress behind him, shaking his head, eyes wild and breath hitching. But it was no use – Zira had seen, and in a flash, he understood.

All the odd little moments, the offhand comments, the things that seemed like nothing at the time – they all made sense now. Everything – the way Crowley kept his hair long despite changing fashions, to the way he played with it; the way he’d started to walk with a sway in his hips as his leg healed; the fact he said the ‘J’ stood for Janice; the uttered question last night about what Zira would do if he “didn’t _have_ to be a man”. And that moment, that moment, that _moment_ when Crowley had frozen after hearing Zira’s journal entry. _Now he’s just a man_, Zira had written.

No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t – and maybe he never had been.

“I— I’m so sorry, Crowley, I didn’t know,” Zira whispered, pleading.

“You could’ve knocked,” Crowley snarled, angry in his embarrassment. “Easy enough way to find out if the room’s occupied.” He turned to the wardrobe and shoved the dress in there, where it slumped to the bottom.

“No... I mean...” Zira entered the room properly and shut the door behind him. His heart was in his throat, wondering how he’d gotten so lucky to have found the one person who was so like him. How could they ever be enemies when they were cut from the same cloth, this way? The same glittering, flowing velvet...

Zira’s breath shivered as he expelled it. He met Crowley’s glower across the room, but a smile came to Zira easily – warmer and sweeter than any smile he’d shown Crowley before. “Black suits you well, my dear. It really does.”

Crowley seemed stumped. For a number of seconds, he almost crossed his arms in insecurity, and almost looked away, and almost started to shout. But he did none of those things in the end. He gazed at Zira and asked, fragile, “What?”

“I’m sure it would look even better _on_, don’t you think?” Zira approached, bypassing Crowley and bending to get the dress from the bottom of the cupboard. A plume of gold rose as he lifted it. “Gosh, all this dust! Anathema clearly hasn’t worn these in months, I doubt she’d mind if you tried it on. She let me wear her coat.”

He held the dress up next to Crowley. It was black velvet and had ruffles down the bib and at the V-necked bust line, with puffy shoulders set wide enough apart that they would only cling to the sharp corners of Crowley’s frame. It looked about the right length, and size. In fact it looked so right for Crowley that Zira suspected this room was where Anathema kept dresses that were too big for her.

Crowley was staring at Zira rather dumbly, blank-faced.

“Well? Go on,” Zira insisted, nudging the dress towards Crowley. “I won’t look! Although I might need to peek to do up the corset for you.”

Crowley took the dress, still staring.

Zira turned his back, hands over his eyes. “I smelled sausages on my way up here, I think breakfast’s going to be quite a treat.”

Judging by the uneven breaths, Crowley was still hesitating. “Angel, I— I don’t know what you... thought you saw, or why you think – why I’m here— I just got bored, that’s all. Stretching the leg.”

Zira lowered his hands and looked back, meeting Crowley’s eyes solemnly.

Crowley’s attention hopped between Zira’s eyes, left right left right... down. Guilty. Lips parted. He glanced away.

Zira leaned in and touched his cheek.

Crowley looked at him.

Zira smiled. “Put the dress on, Crowley. I won’t tell anyone.”

Crowley gulped hard.

Zira gave him a sparkling smile, then turned his back again.

Crowley breathed out, slowly, steadying his nerves. Then he lifted the linen shirt off him and it hit the floorboards along with his too-big breeches, double-tied, then untied. Bare feet patted the floor; legs hissed as they swept together. A few heavy thumps – Crowley hopping as he climbed into the dress. Grunting as he wriggled in. Huffing as he realised he had it backwards. Then snorting as he realised— “Mmmmight need help with the corset, yeah.”

Zira turned, and he yelped in delight, heart leaping, hands clutched together under his chin. “Oh, _Crowley_, you look gorgeous!” He rushed close, grasping Crowley’s hips, then his cheeks, holding him, every part of Zira’s body and soul alight with joy. “You have to believe me, Crowley, in all my life, in all my _life_ I have never seen anyone or anything as—” Zira’s breath stumbled, and tears flushed his waterline. “Tell me you love it, Crowley, I don’t think I could bear if you’re not as happy wearing this as I am to see it.”

Crowley looked a tad dumbfounded, hands snaking up to hold Zira’s wrists, as he still hugged his face. “I... It’s a bit... Um—?”

“Oh, silly me, you haven’t even seen it—” Zira gestured to the mirror, flapping a hand. “I’ll do it up, you look.”

But as Zira stood himself behind Crowley to reach the corset cords, he didn’t even get as far as tightening them against Crowley’s bare back, as Crowley saw his reflection – and from his reaction, it was like he saw himself for the first time.

A hand flew to cover his mouth. He froze there, bare shoulders lifted high, flaming red hair puffing up near his ears. He shook his head, then looked desperately over his shoulder at Zira, fingertips curling, lips parting, yellow snake eyes held wide – asking silently if it was real, if this wasn’t a lucid dream full of guilty pleasures, if he’d really been given the chance to see himself like this after what had to have been _years_ thinking about it, growing his hair long...

Zira held his hand. “Didn’t I say it, my dear?” he said, hearing a tremor in his voice. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

Crowley turned to look again, both hands smoothing down the bust, adjusting the ribbed front to line up with his middle.

Zira got to work on the corset, tightening and tying the cords like bootlaces. Crowley was slim enough that the pale peach of his skin disappeared bit-by-bit, no untightened spaces or bulging gaps of fabric left over once Zira tied the cords off.

He’d watched Crowley while he tied, watched him primp his hair and tilt his head at new angles, trying new facial expressions and different ways to hold himself. By the time the dress was on properly, long skirts pouring down from his hips, arms modest – at least up to his bare shoulders – he’d settled on a posture, and even in bare feet and a shade of morning stubble, there was indeed something distinctly different about him. Zira was no expert in femininity, to say the least, so he couldn’t put his finger, not even a pinkie finger, on what it was that made Crowley look so comfortable this way.

Yet Zira was deeply moved, seeing the shine in Crowley’s eyes. He’d never seen anyone look so quietly content.

Zira didn’t need to ask to know: this wasn’t the first time Crowley had snuck up here to look at the dresses. He must’ve gone through every storage room and cupboard and clothing rack in the place before finding one he liked. But he’d never been brave enough to wear it until now.

Zira’s warm hand touched Crowley’s lower back, and Crowley turned, humming a questioning note. Zira’s grey eyes glittered with vitality, a smile upon his lips. “So? How does it feel?” Zira asked, the way a tailor might.

Crowley rubbed the back of his neck, swaying his head to look again at the mirror. “Tickly.”

“Oh?”

“Dunno if it’s the dust, or the material, or what, but,” Crowley wafted a hand at his midriff, “kind of itches.” He scratched.

“..._And_?”

Zira looked massively expectant.

A lopsided smile rose and Crowley let his mask break; he laughed and threw his hands into his hair, head back, whooping – he twirled, eyes shut, unable to speak but letting the relief of this flow through him, pulsating in his core and shining on his skin. Locks of hair draped away from his hands in sections as he turned, flaming in the sun.

With a jubilant cry, Zira celebrated with him, taking Crowley’s hands, twisting him in a dance. Crowley spun where he was guided, skirts splaying out, forming a bell shape that collapsed and twisted as he was turned the other way. Zira raising his arms pulled his belt free of his morning gown, and as they danced and lifted dust from the corners of the room until it all bloomed in the light, Crowley saw peeks, then the full flash of Zira’s undervest, his white breeches. Crowley and Zira were exposed in different ways, excitingly vulnerable, both of them shining bright.

Crowley remained shy, and scared, but after an involuntary guffaw burst from him a fifth time, turning to a giggle, he wasn’t so afraid. He pushed at Zira playfully, and shrieked as Zira jabbed back, and Crowley almost folded over laughing as Zira curled against his back to tickle him from behind.

Crowley shoved him away then pulled him back, practically in the same movement. Again, he gasped, hugged Zira to him, writhing away from his tickling fingers but leaning close for more and more and more.

Zira turned Crowley around to face him, holding tight and tickling as Crowley barked a laugh in his face, looking watery-eyed, pink-cheeked, his body shaking, hands on Zira’s shoulders.

“Hah!” Zira exclaimed, as he accidentally nudged Crowley up against a sideboard that was next to the wardrobe, and a box of ribbons toppled down onto the floor. “Whoops.”

Crowley didn’t even notice – he was out of breath, eager-eyed, hands pulling at Zira’s banyan so he’d come closer, so their bodies pressed... Crowley lifted himself onto the sideboard, legs open around Zira, soft vocalisations escaping his mouth. His merry gaze was furiously intense.

Zira chuckled against him, noses almost touching, hands holding Crowley’s waist. He pressed close, a hand scrunching at the dress touching Crowley’s inner thigh – he’d rubbed ointment there enough times to know where he was most ticklish. Crowley spasmed, bucking; he threw his head back, smile slipping – “_Auuh_,” he moaned, hips surging. “Ah— Angel...”

Zira exhaled hard on Crowley’s lips, hot all over, tickling using Crowley’s dress material, then pushing the dress hem up and tickling with fingertips to his skin. Inner thighs were so sensitive.

Crowley whimpered, shifting around desperately, panting, brows colliding, lips red and shivering. “Zira...?”

Zira wrapped Crowley’s waist with one arm and tugged him as close as possible, breathing against Crowley’s exposed shoulder, still grinning, one hand slipping all the way under Crowley’s dress. He stoked up his inner thigh, with the lightest possible pressure, making Crowley wail with laughter, _squirming_, gasping, fingers gripping Zira’s robe with all his strength.

“Ah— Oh... Oh,” Crowley whispered. He seemed to tense. “Mh...?” He whimpered a little – and Zira saw him shut his eyes, sucking his lower lip. His face was fully flushed. “HmmzZira-hhh...”

Zira nosed close, grinning against Crowley. His hand turned, and stroked back down, making Crowley jump again, whimpering, eyes to the ceiling as he begged for mercy and cackled at the same time.

“Z-Ziraaha_haha_—”

Outside the dressing room, down the hall, Anathema looked into every open door, wondering where in Heaven’s name her guests had gone. It wasn’t like Zira to be late to _breakfast_.

Anathema heard a peal of nearby laughter, deep and sudden and interrupted by a shriek.

“_Zir— No! Nonono-ahah—_”

Anathema hurried along closer to the one closed door, a smile rising. At least the Black Knights hadn’t stolen her friends away in the night. That was a relief.

“_Come back here, you – hehe – you blackguard! Don’t you wriggle away from me. Ahaha—_”

She came to the closed door and knocked twice, but only heard thumping and another round of giggling, then a big crash and a boom—

“_Crowley!_”

“_Y— You dihh— Your fault— aH! Hah! Hh—_”

Anathema knocked again but her announcement went ignored or unheard, drowned by yelps and more hiccupping roars of amusement. So she opened the door, asking, “You two okay in heeeee...re...”

She’d walked in on something unspeakable. Zira’s morning robe was halfway off one shoulder, trailing on the floor, which was littered with ribbons and hats. Crowley was the one laughing more raucously – he wore a black dress Anathema had forgotten existed, his shoulders bare, his hair a wreck, his face flushed in a most obscene way. His legs were fully exposed and open around Zira, and Zira had a hand against Crowley’s inner thigh. They hadn’t noticed Anathema, deafened by the barks of their own laughing voices, the shift of their bodies and the thumping of the sideboard against the wall as they rocked – and Anathema was about to flee, humiliated to have witnessed such an intimate moment, forbidden romance brought to _fruition_ under her own roof – but upon a second fleeting glance, she realised with a pang of relief they were doing nothing more risqué than _tickling_.

They were playing dress-up. Like children who’d found a box of costumes.

Anathema cleared her throat _very_ loudly, fist to her mouth.

The Baronet and the Knight turned to look at her with matching gasps – and to Anathema’s surprise, they didn’t jump apart, but together. Zira placed himself protectively between Anathema and Crowley, looking for all the world like he was armed and dangerous, as if a flaming sword would not be remiss in his hand, and Crowley hid against Zira’s back, scared yellow eyes peering out over his shoulder.

Anathema couldn’t help snickering, hand on her stomach. She schooled her face straight quickly, sensing both men’s extreme unease, but still wore a smirk as she told them, “Breakfast is ready.”

She shot them another perplexed once-over, then shook her head and left, calling, “Leave the mess! If you come down quickly the toast will still be hot.”

  


**♔**

  


Crowley showed up to breakfast wearing a ruffled black blouse and the world’s tightest black trousers, their hems hidden in tall heeled boots, boots which Anathema thought she’d lost weeks ago. He made eye contact with no-one, not even Zira, who sat close beside him, also not looking at Anathema.

They ate their sausages and beans and egg and toast in an odd, embarrassed silence, creating a tense atmosphere which Anathema sought to ignore, going through her mail as she ate.

“Hm!” She almost dropped her fork, grinning as she re-read the card she’d pulled from a sky-blue envelope. “Invitation here from Gabriel and Michael.”

“Getting divorced already?” Crowley drawled, making Zira elbow him under the table. Crowley grunted. “What? We all know it was a political marriage. _Duke Gabriel_ retains his title even if they separate. That’s what it was all about, angel, don’t kid yourself. He wanted a rung up in the fight against the Black Knights, and a more lucrative title’s the obvious way to crank up the power-grab. He married Michael to buy an army.”

Zira tutted at his food. “Whether or not we all _know_ the reason they got married, we don’t have to say it out _loud_.”

“Puh. This is exactly why the Resistance is losing. Be honest about the lies, already!”

“The Resistance isn’t losing!” Zira whined, both accusatory and hurt, hoping but not really knowing that Crowley’s statement was false. “We’re the good guys, we’re supposed to win.”

“Good guys, huh? What makes you the good guys, exactly? Far as I can tell you just want the same as the Knights do: steamroll the opposition, prove you’re the best, then impose your opinions on whoever’s left alive.”

“Well... less steamrollering, but... yes, I suppose.”

Anathema chuckled. “Gabriel and Michael aren’t getting divorced. They’re throwing a Ball.”

Crowley squinted. “Who’s catching it?”

Anathema passed Crowley the glitter-laced invitation. “A big Winter Ball. Dancing and music and political speeches to rally the troops. Top secret Resistance gathering.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, passing the the invite to Zira. “And you’re telling me about it? Either you’re both in possession of only a single brain cell each, or you really _do_ trust me. Or both.”

“Obviously I’m taking Newt as my date,” Anathema said, giving Zira a smile as he passed the invitation back to her. “Aaaand,” she added, pointedly, “if-and-when _your_ invite arrives, Zira...”

Zira paused his chewing, looking curious.

“Then,” Anathema said, leaning forward, elbows on the table, “Your fiancée would _love_ to go with you to this Ball, huh? One bumpy carriage ride would be worth it, right – super important event?”

Gotta be cruel to be kind, Anathema told herself. Whatever she’d witnessed Zira and Crowley doing up there in the dressing room, it was definitely... _intimate_. If Anathema had been one of the maids and not herself, and hadn’t taken an extra second to deduce what she was really seeing, perhaps the scene would have ended differently. Whether or not it was actually true, Zira’s whole life could be upended if a rumour got out that he preferred men. He _needed_ a woman to marry him someday. Luckily he was already engaged to one – but he couldn’t afford to cheat on her.

Cruel, yes... But Anathema realised a second later; maybe she’d been too cruel.

Crowley’s face had blanched. His thin red lips mouthed around the word ‘_fiancée_’, with the same horror one usually reserved for whatever gruesome carcass a stray cat had left on the kitchen doorstep.

And in seeing that horror, Anathema realised she’d been right the first time. This was a romance. Now Crowley looked at Zira with the heartbroken pain of betrayal in his eyes. He’d been led on. Flirted with. He’d opened his heart. And now he thought Zira was already taken.

The horror passed more quickly from Zira’s eyes, and now he shook his head fast at Crowley, barely moving, as if he didn’t want Anathema to see but was desperately trying to communicate with Crowley.

Crowley glanced away, on the verge of tears, breaths coming fast. His draped his napkin on the table, as if about to leave.

“Hey,” Anathema said softly, realising with a jolt that there was a _reason_ Zira never told Crowley about that fiancée, and it wasn’t because he was lying to him – it was because he’d been lying to _Anathema_. He’d only told Crowley the truth. Anathema panted, “Heyheyhey, relax, would you? Both of you.”

When they looked at her, she told them, “I can handle a Black Knight bleeding everywhere. I can handle you stealing my best boots. And I can handle a Baronet who for the last ten freaking years has been saying he’s engaged to a woman... but after a decade of engagement, me never once meeting her, and then nearly two months of him living here, and not a single letter exchanged in either direction—” and other reasons, a leading example of which she’d witnessed this morning, “I’m kiiiinda starting to think she doesn’t exist. Maybe never has.”

Crowley’s breath flew out of him, and he covered his mouth with a hand, staring out of the sliding doors and into the sunny conservatory.

Zira hid his forehead with a palm, ears reddened, burning with shame.

Crowley shut his eyes for a bit, recovering – then he looked softly at Zira.

Their eyes met. Crowley smiled, briefly – then he scoffed like nothing had transpired at all, and declared with his usual brashness, “Too bad I can’t go to that Ball. Love parties. _Big_ fan of parties, me.”

“Mm, too bad,” Zira agreed, swiping at his cheeks like that would wipe off his blush. He tucked back into his food, all prim movements and an upright posture. “Black Knight at a Resistance Ball. That would go down well.”

But Anathema smiled, shaking her head. “You would look good in a dress, though.” She caught Crowley’s wary eyes and winked. “Black looks better on you than me, anyway,” she said casually, poking at her food. “On me, just blends into my hair.”

She lifted her eyes just in time to see Crowley start to grin, and Zira slip a hand onto the table to touch the back of Crowley’s accidentally... but completely on purpose.

  


**♔**

  



	8. The Tangerine of Troubling Thoughts

“Oh dear,” Zira sighed, reading the headlines of the massive newspaper he held open in front of him. The scowl between his blond brows deepened. “Dear-oh-dear.”

“Don’t know why you do it to yourself, angel,” Crowley uttered, leaning so far over the living room table that he sprawled, inner biceps on the dark wood, long fingers rolling a tangerine back and forth in the fruit bowl centerpiece. “There’s never any good news.”

“Yes, and it’s _your_ side’s fault, as per usual,” Zira said curtly, trying to fold up the newspaper, but leaving it tangled.

“_Oi_,” Crowley argued. “Look, if your ‘God-save-the-Prince-Regent’ friends hadn’t gone and dragged religious ideology into a perfectly good military war, just for the sake of going around preaching about how we’re all going to Hell and there’s no hope of atonement, maybe the Knights wouldn’t be in a destructive mood all the time. If there’s no hope for us, why bother doing the right thing?”

Zira tutted. He gazed across the table at Anathema, who was poring over her herbiary book, taking notes in a separate book.

“Just between us,” Zira admitted, eyes down, “whatever the Resistance people say, I tend to disagree. Of course there’s space for atonement. Why would God give us free will, only to condemn us completely for one mistake? Life goes on, does it not? And in the time we’re given, I think it’s perfectly possible to seek and find forgiveness.” He looked solemnly at Crowley, and Crowley thought Zira’s face looked especially elegant in the shaft of sunlight that just grazed his jaw. He glowed gold, skin and stubble and eyelashes, like the sunshine came from within. “That is,” Zira added, “forgiveness can be found, so long as someone’s prepared to make positive changes in their life.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, I believe you, I just don’t get why you’re telling _me_.”

“I wasn’t telling you,” Zira said innocently.

“You were. You looked right at me.”

“Well, maybe you’re reading into that more than I intended. Maybe, deep down, Crowley, you secretly hope you _are_ worth some Divine attention. And you pray you _will_ be forgiven.”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah. Right. Divine attention, _me_. May God strike down mine enemy with Holy Fire and pave me a path to Eden. That’ll be the day.” He went back to massaging the tangerine into pulp with a single fingertip. He sulked, quietly.

Anthema glanced up. “Don’t you two have something productive to be doing?”

Zira shrugged uncomfortably. “Already did my finances for the bookshop.” He put on a quick smile. “Done and dusted. Not much to do, really, these days.”

Crowley balanced his tangerine on an apple. “You two are my only source of entertainment.” The tangerine fell off the apple and hit a pear further down in the fruit stack.

“Clearly,” Anathema said, putting her glasses back on and getting back to her book.

Crowley swerved his torso on the table, angling towards Anathema. “So what _is_ that book of yours, anyway?”

“Oh, it’s been in my family for generations,” Anathema said vaguely, before lifting her eyes and realising Crowley was really curious. “It stayed in England while my side of the family tree developed in America, but my aunt – a distant aunt, I mean – she kept it safe here. Then when she, Lady Bathilda Device, passed on a few years back, my mom sent me over here so the Device Estate wouldn’t be sitting empty. Honestly, I could do without the manor, I’d be more at home in a regular house. Or a schoolhouse. But hey, the book came with the manor. So, yay.”

She showed Crowley the cover. It was newly bound in dark green, but the pages were old and tatty and yellowed by age.

“There’s _everything_ in here,” Anathema said with a huge smile and increasing verve. “Every Device daughter has added something, and it’s not all tattoo balms and nail paints. Everything, from recipes for ointments – six dozen kinds, for any ailment you can think of – to poisons and their antidotes, to flower-arranging tips, to instructions on how to make... I don’t know,” she started flipping through the pages, “roofing putty; the toothpaste you’ve been using; fire-resistant leather.

“About two hundred years ago the contents of this book left the realm of domestic herbiary and just became straight-up chemistry. I’ve been studying it for years and the crazy thing is, it all works. Nobody puts anything in here without being a-hundred-percent sure it does what it’s meant to do. If the Witchfinders ever knew about this they’d have been hounding my ancestors and burning them at the stake.”

Crowley nodded, lips arched. “And you? Have you put something in? _Writing_ a book... hm, seems like a nice idea. Could be fun. Better than reading, anyway.”

Anathema smiled, a hopeful gleam in her eyes. “Someday. I’m looking for the perfect concept. So far my shortlist is ‘overly messy blue smoke bombs’ and ‘industrial strength glasses cleaner that can be used to remove your actual fingerprints in a pinch’.”

“Could add both, once they’re refined a bit,” Crowley said. “Dunno what anyone would use a smoke bomb for though.”

Anathema shrugged. “Could be handy someday. If I trusted the Resistance troops I’d even offer the recipe as a potential weapon.”

Zira, who had been listening, had just been reminded of an old irritation. “You don’t trust the troops, but you’re sending them money. _I’m_ sending them money.”

“It’s not like we have a choice,” Anathema shrugged. “If we don’t send them money, what’s the other option? Either we support the Black Knights, or we do nothing. And—” a grimace tensed her mouth, “as much as I hate the limited options, doing nothing while there’s a civil war on seems unthinkable to me.”

Crowley eyed her. “Haven’t you ever thought about becoming a soldier?” He looked at Zira too. “Either of you? Front line. Actually physically going into battle. Then you’re really doing something.”

“Crowley,” Zira smiled, “I’d be shot down ten seconds out of the gate. Believe me, I’m more use to the armies out of harm’s way, where I can send large, regular donations to the higher-ups that they can use as they see fit. Only a fraction of the populace becomes a soldier. And anyone who isn’t still wants to buy books.”

“I do think about it,” Anathema said quietly. “Fighting, I mean. I’d probably survive. But doing that, that goes against everything I want, not for myself, but for this whole country. I want the war to end. I don’t care about winning, about proving who’s right, or who’s better or stronger. I just want it over. So, I’ll stay here, eyes and ears trained on the Resistance, trying to figure out a smarter way to end it. It’s my biggest project. It’s what I spend my time doing.” She stroked the herbiary book. “I have a feeling there’s something in here. And if there isn’t, I’ll make it myself.”

Crowley sighed, chin on the table. He started at his tangerine, which was collapsing in the sun’s heat. “Must be nice. Keeping your hands clean, watching the war from afar. Having money. Not being dragged into the army just so someone’ll keep a roof over your head.”

A sullen silence followed that.

“Guess I’ll never get my money back,” Crowley uttered, scratching his forehead wrinkles with a thumb, “given that I abandoned the Knights mid-mission, and all.”

“What do you mean?” Zira asked. “What money?”

“The... money. My money. My life’s savings.”

When Zira and Anathema waited for more, Crowley realised they didn’t know. So he told them: “When you’re recruited as a Knight, you put your finances in a sort of... community kitty. Everything you offer pays for everyone else, and in exchange you get food, shelter, a bed, weapons, armour. All that. Once we win the war, our accounts are unfrozen, and we get it back with interest.” He shrugged. “I mean, obviously, if I died before the war ends, the Knights would divide my money between everyone else.”

Zira screwed up his face. “Doesn’t that give you motivation to murder each other? So someone else’s money goes into your pocket?”

Crowley opened his mouth. “Ahh... Yeah? A little bit. It’s good practise.”

Zira and Anathema exchanged a despairing look, Zira with one hand to his forehead.

Crowley looked between them. “Anyway. Point is, I’m completely broke.” 

Zira looked like he had something to say about that, but he shut his mouth, let go of his breath, and just gave Crowley a sad smile. “Sorry to hear it.”

With a grunt, Crowley flicked the tangerine, and it fell out of the fruit bowl, rolled along the table, and toppled off to the floor. He heard it bounce on the rug, a bit wetly.

Anathema gave Crowley a stern look. Crowley gave her a sheepish grin, and with a grumbling groan of exertion, went to clean up the mess.

  


**♔**

  


Crowley didn’t need help getting to bed. He really didn’t. He hadn’t wobbled in any direction in a week, and besides the occasional twinge when he stomped too hard or missed a step, the ointment kept any pain at bay. He could clean out his own chamber pot. He could wash his own damn hands. He took his own baths. He didn’t need to be tucked into bed.

But... well...

Zira didn’t seem to know what to do with himself when Crowley did it all himself. He stood around with a hand out, taking hopeful breaths but saying nothing.

Yet Crowley didn’t let that stop him. He almost teased Zira with his own abilities now, reaching out like he needed help, then sweeping away playfully, prancing right into bed.

Okay, he was a prick. He knew that.

Zira pouted, but a smile followed soon after, a rainbow after the rain.

The one thing that was quite obviously non-negotiable, however, was tucking Crowley in. These nights there was a lot less pillow-fluffing and water-pouring and fire-poking and blanket-straightening, as night by night, the ritual had been reduced down to the basics, the bit they both liked the most but wouldn’t dare admit.

It went like this: Zira sat on the side of Crowley’s bed, leaning a hand on the mattress, torso turned to face Crowley. They’d talk for a bit. Soft voices, soft topics. No politics or war allowed.

But then, as of last night, they’d added one more step: Zira would give Crowley a forehead kiss.

And then it was goodnight.

This time, however, Zira went still before he moved to sit on the bed. “Crowley,” he said quietly.

“Mmm?” Crowley wriggled under the blankets, wearing a black vest he’d found in a faraway drawer. Now he worried the kiss had been a one-off, and wasn’t destined to become part of their nightly ritual.

Zira sat. He put his head down and pulled out the hairbrush from a pocket in his robe. “May I...?”

Crowley started to sit up. He turned his back, and hugged his knees, so Zira could get all of his hair easily.

As Zira started to brush, Crowley shut his eyes, resting his cheek on his forearm, letting the rhythm soothe him.

“Crowley, I...”

Crowley’s ears tingled.

“I know Anathema said at breakfast, but... I thought you should hear it from me. I’m not engaged to anyone. I am very much a bachelor.”

Crowley snorted like it wasn’t any care of his, while his heart unclenched in relief. He’d wondered all day and it had been quietly tearing him apart. He may or may not have taken out his worry on an innocent tangerine. He’d been working up to asking about that fiancée, trying to figure out the exact tone in which to ask.

Zira explained, “There was a woman who was... interested in me. Ten years ago. And I wasn’t interested in return. And it seemed kinder, safer, to tell her I was taken then tell her I was... Um. Not... attracted to... her.”

“Lies save lives,” Crowley murmured. “‘S what they teach us at Black Knight school.”

“There’s a school?”

“Hff! No.”

“Oh. I thought I’d finally cracked you. Pried out all those Black Knight secrets.”

Crowley smiled. It said a lot about how far they’d come that they could joke about that stuff now.

“Angel?”

“Mmm?”

“Why did you tell _Anathema_ you were engaged? You’re friends, aren’t you? Wouldn’t think you were the type to lie to friends.”

“Oh... Was easier. We only met briefly back then – she was just a child, visiting from America with her mother. I told everyone about this fiancée for years after the fact. And to be honest I thought Anathema worked out the truth years ago. Maybe she did, but she couldn’t confirm, so... erred on the side of caution.”

Crowley’s scalp tingled as Zira began to comb over it. “You didn’t tell _me_ the same story.”

Zira didn’t respond for a long time. Soon Crowley realised he wasn’t going to respond at all, not about that.

After a while, Crowley heard less hair-brushing and more swishy-swooshing, then felt a gentle tugging on locks of his hair. “What’re you doin’ to me, angel?”

There was a smile in Zira’s voice as he answered, “I’m curling your hair. Putting little bows in and rolling it up... aaaaand...” A firm tug near Crowley’s scalp. “Tied. Shouldn’t come loose. Undo the ribbons in the morning.”

Crowley glanced back, trying to see his angel. “Why’re you curling my hair?”

Zira stroked his bare shoulder, over the strap of his vest. “Do you want me to stop?”

Crowley buried his chin against his knees, smiling into his hands. “Nn-nn.”

He almost fell asleep, lulled by the pushes and nudges of Zira’s hands, the crackle of the fire, and the faint, familiar smell of marzipan icing.

“There.” Zira sighed, some time later. “All done. To sleep, now, my dear.” His warm palm touched Crowley’s back. “It’s quite late.”

“Hm.” Crowley lay down and rolled over, gazing sleepily at his friend. His head felt all lumpy against the pillow. “Thanks, angel.”

“You’re welcome,” Zira said warmly.

“Hm.” Crowley smirked. Then he sighed in a blast, and reached out... he took Zira by the lapel and slowly eased him close, chest to chest, hand on Zira’s right cheek... He shut his eyes and kissed Zira’s left cheek, soft and warm... and for a long time.

“Oh,” came the tender breath of Zira, relaxing. “Oh, _oh_, my dear, I...”

Crowley’s heart was taking flight on the wings of a thousand butterflies. Colours burst inside him, a joyous sun shining through years of winter gloom.

Face hot with a blush, Zira backed away again just as Crowley tried to hold him closer. Crowley’s hand curled on nothing, so he lay it on his blanket like he’d had no other plan for it.

Zira’s eyelashes fluttered, his breath caught, and he looked down, frantically trying to restrain a smile, getting up to leave when he failed. “Thank you,” he whispered. Then he flustered. “I-I mean? I mean.”

“Shut up, angel,” Crowley grinned.

“Yes. Yes. Quite. S-Sweet dreams, my dear.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Crowley watched him go... watched him pause as a shadow at the door, looking back like he wanted to say something else... then he went on his way, door shut behind him.

A hopeless, dopey smile overtook Crowley’s face, and he rolled to screech into his pillow, gripping its plump shape against his face, beyond overwhelmed. He kick-kick-kicked his legs in the bed and squirmed around, sobbing with happiness.

He took a breath, head to the side, then flipped onto his back, grinning hugely, biting his bottom lip.

He’d thought he deserved nothing. He’d thought the universe provided his comeuppance, in years of darkness and fear. Anything good that came his way, he hadn’t earned. It wasn’t truly for him. It would be fleeting, surely.

But this? Zira.

His angel...

Zira made Crowley doubt himself harder than he’d ever doubted before. And for once it was a good thing. No longer did he deserve punishment. Crowley welcomed this beacon of _light_ in his life. This feeling he felt now, this blinding _blaze_ of gold inside him, fitting just right, in just the right place to counteract the shadows, it made a fact undeniable: Zira was meant for him.

Crowley wasn’t really one for praying, but he may have hoped, in his head, with great verve, that this time the universe’s gifts were not fleeting.

He hoped this time it would be forever.

  


**♔**

  



	9. What We’re Meant to Become

Newton Pulsifer was about Anathema’s age, but he had such a clumsy, boyish manner about him that when seated at a big table in the living room with four eleven-year-olds, while Anathema stood up, aiming a pointer at a wheeled chalkboard, Newton looked like he was being tutored along with everyone else.

Crowley watched the class from his usual place on the sofa, one elbow hooked over the back. He was as interested in irreversible combustion processes as the kids. However, the calmness with which the children listened to Anathema was followed immediately by hollering and chaos once they had their own work to get on with, and Crowley slunk out of the room to save his poor eardrums.

He found Zira sitting on the bottom of the staircase, taking notes.

“Too much for you?” Zira asked, smiling up at Crowley.

Crowley shrugged, hands in his pockets. His curls bounced on his shoulders, and he swept up a hand to touch one ringlet, as it was cool against his cheek and he wasn’t yet over the novelty of how it felt.

Zira peered at the makeshift classroom, then said, slyly, “Tell you what...” He stood up, tucking his notebook into his overcoat pocket. He leaned close, one hand on Crowley’s chest as he uttered into his ear, “Let’s skip class today.”

Crowley started to grin. “Oh, you’re _bad_.”

Zira pressed a shushing finger to his lips, eyes darting to the kids, then back to Crowley. He turned away and started tiptoeing up the stairs.

Crowley snuffled a laugh, but followed, tiptoeing too, even though there was no need for it. Nobody had even noticed he’d left.

At the top of the stairs, Zira gave a breezy laugh, flapping a hand at his face like they’d really done something naughty. “Oh, I hope nobody catches us...”

Shaking his head, Crowley marvelled at how Zira was this utterly ridiculous. “What’s the plan, angel? Necking behind the bicycle shed?”

“Oh!” Zira covered his mouth with both hands, eyes bright, holding back a laugh. His hands lowered and he breathed, “Crowley! You fiend!”

Crowley bit his lip and swayed, hands still in his pockets.

“You know,” Zira said distractedly, reaching up to card through Crowley’s curls, “you do look ever so pretty like this. Seems a waste not to enjoy it... wouldn’t you say?”

“How d’you mean?”

That spark of playfulness in Zira’s eyes doubled, and he took Crowley’s hand. “Come on.”

He let Crowley on an easy walk down the hall, then up the spiral staircase, and along again. Crowley suspected he knew their destination, but the tingle of excitement in his chest blossomed once he felt Zira tug him towards a familiar oakwood door.

Maybe they’d take all their clothes off and tickle each other again. After trying that exactly once, Crowley was a big supporter of it now. And an even bigger supporter of not being disturbed while they touched. He’d fantasised practically all night about what might’ve happened next if Anathema hadn’t seen. And he had a particularly vivid imagination.

The sun wasn’t aimed directly through the back window, as it was late in the afternoon, so they found the dressing room dim but not dark. A square of gold hung like a picture on the left wall, over the vanity dresser. One corner of the light touched the curved top of the mirror, reflecting bright into Crowley eyes as he strode to the middle of the room.

“Now, let’s seeeee...” Zira had closed the door and approached the wardrobe, opening it up. “This was the one you liked, wasn’t it?” He pulled out the dress on a hanger.

Crowley nodded. “Angel... Look, not that I don’t appreciate it, but why are you... encouraging this? Letting me... Helping me.”

Zira shrugged, eyes down, going to Crowley and starting to undo his buttons for him. “You looked so happy.”

“_You_ looked—” Crowley said, distracted as his chest was bared, and Zira ran his fingertips between the blouse’s part, touching his skin. “You looked happy too. A bit.”

Zira tilted his head, breathing out as he set both hands on Crowley’s waist, untucking the rest of his shirt from his trousers. “Maybe I—” He swallowed, pulling back a bit as Crowley took over, untying his own trousers. Zira watched, absent-mindedly. “Maybe deep down – very deep down, that is – I might, sometimes, think about... breaking the rules. _Want_ to, even. But.” He lowered his head, fiddling with a button on his velvet waistcoat. “Easier if someone else does it, isn’t it.”

Crowley watched Zira, looking away only when he bent to step out of his trousers – only for them to bunch on his boots and he yelped, toppling—

Zira grabbed him reflexively, arms around his waist.

Crowley purred, pushing himself back to his feet, nose within an inch of Zira’s. “Caught me _again_, angel.”

“You do have a habit of falling.”

“I don’t fall,” Crowley said, sitting on the plush-topped stool of the vanity that Zira pulled out for him. “I just... saunter vaguely downwards.”

Zira knelt at Crowley’s feet, pulling one heeled boot into his lap to untie the laces. He gave Crowley a dull look. “I hate to correct you – but you _plummet_.”

Crowley smirked. He set both hands on the soft seat, leg stretched out so Zira could get the boot off. There were a dozen criss-crossed laces, and Zira was loosening them properly.

He eased the boot off eventually, one hand cupping the back of Crowley’s leg, the other pulling from behind his heel.

The second boot came off the same way. Zira undressed him with all the tenderness of a kiss.

Bare-footed, Crowley straightened his legs to let Zira pull off his trousers. Crowley was left bare but for his white cotton breeches, bunched up around his upper thighs.

Zira offered both hands, and Crowley took them, pulled to his feet.

They put the dress on the same way as yesterday, except Zira didn’t turn away this time. They stood before the floor-length mirror, Zira’s platinum hair aglow in that reflected corner of sunlight. It looked a little like a halo.

The sight of his halo reminded Crowley of the moment they’d met, when the world was spinning, darkening around the edges – and there had come a kindly figure in white, soft-voiced, soft-handed, the blinding light of Heaven behind his head. No matter the Earthly realities Crowley had later discovered about Zira, the man was an angel then, and he was an angel now.

“Zira?” Crowley asked, while Zira tugged on corset strings. “How did you become a Baronet?”

Zira glanced up. “Oh. My parents were a Baronet and Baronetess. Hereditary nobility. A lot of the Resistance bigwigs used to be the same. Born into power. Of course it’s all different now. After more than three decades fighting over who gets to control our armies, I’d say we settled it in our perfectly English way: simple enough to explain, but in practise just complicated enough to be worthwhile. Marry someone with a higher rank in the gentry and you gain half their assets. Divorce them and there’s a chance you come away with a good deal. Duke Gabriel’s certainly winning that game. I heard he was barely a pauper when he first landed in England. And now he’s the leader of millions. A few more strategic couplings, working his way up, and he’ll be asking the Prince _Regent_ for his hand in marriage!” Zira joked, laughing as he spoke. “Wouldn’t that be something. But me, no. I inherited the money and the title.”

“Right.” Crowley fussed with the bustline of his dress, straightening before it got too tight to adjust. “Yeah, me too. I inherited the Black Knight thing. Well— No, not really. The Black Knights weren’t big back then. But the whole movement emerged as a response to widespread poverty, and my parents were right there in it. By the time I was old enough to realise I’d been swept up into an underground terrorist organisation I’d already been Knighted for ‘services to humanity’.”

“How old were you?”

“Mm, fourteen?”

“So around the time of the Mayfair attack, then.”

Crowley parted his lips with his tongue. “Yeah. Thereabouts.” He glanced back. “You?”

“When I realised we were at war? Sixteen. The actual day of the Mayfair attack.”

Crowley growled and shut his eyes, chin to his chest.

“You didn’t have a hand in that, did you?” Zira asked, tugging as he tied up the top of the corset. “Mayfair?”

“I was living there. Still would be, if I wasn’t here right now.”

Zira’s hands froze on the knot. “You didn’t—”

“No.” Crowley folded his arms, head down. “Wasn’t me. Was a few of my mates. Th... They, um. The higher-ups... gave me a commendation. Thought I was part of it. Damn blast nearly killed me too.”

“Crowley...”

“I don’t think I was ever Black Knight material,” Crowley said, staring blankly at the wall. “It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

“Violence was all you’d known,” Zira said, one hand on Crowley’s back. “If Anathema’s tutoring sessions with the children have taught me anything, it’s that sometimes you don’t need a school in order to be taught. You pick things up from the people around you. Especially when we’re young, we mimic what we see.”

“I’m not young anymore. What excuse do I have now?”

“And,” Zira went on, “Anathema’s also taught me that you’re never too old to learn something new, either. You got yourself _out_, Crowley. You made a choice. I can’t say it was a flawless choice, but your heart was in the right place.”

Crowley swallowed. He turned to look at Zira, holding his eyes for a while, comforted.

“Do you regret it?” Zira asked. “Becoming a Black Knight.”

“I... regret everything I’ve done in the name of their cause, if that’s what you mean.”

“Then, may you be forgiven.”

Crowley scoffed. “I won’t be forgiven. Not ever. Part of the job description. Unforgivable, that’s what I _am_.”

“_I_ forgive you,” Zira said, looking at Crowley too softly. “You’re the sum of a thousand parts. You’re made of far greater things than your worst choices, Crowley. We all are.”

Crowley hung his head, wanting to speak but not knowing what to say. Eventually, after a few breaths, he murmured, “I sssssuppose... what we’re born as... isn’t what we’re meant to become. Not always.”

He sensed Zira’s smile.

“And you prove it by existing,” Zira replied. He took Crowley gently by the hand and led him to the vanity, where Crowley sat facing the mirror, velvet skirts engulfing the front legs of the stool.

He looked at his reflection, seeing his bust and face in the vanity’s mirror. His hair was styled beautifully, swirling in distinct curls around his sharp diamond jaw, spilling past his neck. In the reflected sunlight, his eyes glowed yellow, lips pale but for the red line between them.

Crowley looked around on the vanity’s clutter, searching for something. He started pulling open drawers, and found what he wanted in the second drawer down.

“What’s that, then?” Zira sat on the edge of the stool, and Crowley jumped further along so he had more room.

“You mean to tell me you’ve never seen a lip salve?” Crowley said, leaning closer to the mirror, opening a little silver tin and dipping his pinkie finger in. “Come on, angel. Every woman these days pretends she woke up looking like an Olympian beauty. Maybe she _is_ born with it. Or maybe it’s alkanet.”

He opened his mouth and began sliding his finger across his lips, pup-pup-pupping his lips together to transfer the faint vermilion shade.

Zira watched for a while, shifting on the stool be closer to Crowley and to face the mirror, hands on his lap.

Soon he said, “Crowley, can I ask – why do you... want this?”

Crowley paused to glance at Zira. “Eh?”

“To dress up like this. It’s obvious it... it suits you, it’s right for you. And _I_ of all people have absolutely no qualm with it, believe me – but I am curious why...?”

Crowley shrugged. He turned back to the mirror, but didn’t dig into the rouge just yet. He lowered it, and placed his empty hands together, rubbing palm to palm in his lap. “I, um. I like to change. Well, not ‘like to’ – I do. It’s kind of involuntary. Sometimes I’m fine! Sometimes I don’t mind looking like a man. Half the time I really love it. But... other times...?” He tilted his head. “I just want to look different. Nothing _else_ feels different, not really? But. I want the outside to look right. And until... Until now?” His throat tightened. “Never has.”

“Hm... I _think_... I might understand?” Zira said. “I think. I’m not sure...”

Crowley picked up the silver pot and got back to painting his lips.

“So – you want to be a woman at the moment, is that it?” Zira asked, eager to know everything.

“No?” Crowley grinned. “I’m just me, angel. Not a woman. Not really anything.”

“Oh.” Zira blinked twice. “Not a man either, then?”

“Nn-nn. Jus’ as much Anthony Janice Crowley as b’fore. I’m wearin’ a dress, ‘s all.”

Zira’s breath fluttered, heart dancing. He watched Crowley finish his lips, capping the pot and setting it down, leaning in to admire his new look.

“Crowley. Um. W-Would it interest you to know that...” Zira broke out in a flop sweat, trembling with excitement. “Well. I’ve never told anyone this. Not once. See. Thing is. I’m... actually a lot like you, Crowley. I’m not really... anything.”

Yellow eyes were aflame when Crowley’s gaze shot to Zira. A tentative smile turned to a searing grin, disbelief and hope alive in his stare.

“I like this shape,” Zira said, running palms down his flat chest. “And the clothes. And I dare say it’s a lot easier to go about life looking like a man than not. But.” He gulped, smiled, and shrugged a shoulder. “It’s been many, many decades since I realised how different I was to... to men. Or anyone, really. Perhaps that’s why I’m so glad you are the way you are, my dear. Opposite sides or not, Crowley, we have far more in common than either of us could _ever_ have imagined.”

With a desperate sob of delight, Crowley lurched in close and smothered Zira’s cheek with a loud kiss, grasping his face and breathing in against it, making Zira yelp, then laugh and laugh and squirm in place, pretending to push Crowley away but tugging him closer by a ruffle on his dress.

“Mmmmmmm-wah!” Crowley sank back, smug and satisfied.

Zira was still giggling, eyes closed in happiness, one hand touching his kissed cheek. He lowered his hand, gazing fondly at Crowley, gathering together his giggles and settling down.

“Hmm,” Crowley said, reaching to smudge at Zira’s cheek with a thumb. “Left a bit of a mark.”

Zira glanced in the mirror and burst out laughing again, seeing the bloom of a rose on his pale cheek. Zira’s body was tingling like it never had before, and he hoped it would never stop. He turned back to Crowley, feeling his heart floating up-up-_up!_ in his chest.

They went quiet for a while, Crowley nudging Zira with a shoulder, Zira swaying back. They looked at each other in person, then at each other in the mirror, then at themselves, each mesmerised by how renewed they felt, now someone else was keeping the secret they’d been hiding all their life.

Slowly, Zira’s mind turned to further confessions. “For ten years I’ve told people I’m engaged to marry a woman.”

Crowley turned to look at Zira again, listening for elaboration.

“And,” Zira drew a breath, smiling, then frowning at his lap, then sucking his lower lip, “And there’s no woman. There’s never been any women. I’ve never been interested.”

“You prefer men?” Crowley asked, flushing hot as he asked. He felt a thrill from saying those words aloud – nobody was ever meant to admit things like that. It was just so exciting to talk about this, feeling _safe_ talking about it.

“That’s the thing,” Zira said, head to one side, holding his own hands, thumbs rubbing. “Not exactly.” He looked up at Crowley. “I haven’t really liked... anyone. Ever.”

Crowley’s heartbeat started to trip over itself. If Zira was about to say there was no hope of things going any further between them, then Crowley’s heart was prepared to stop dead.

“Not men,” Zira said, looking at Crowley’s cheeks. “Not women.” Eyes on Crowley’s lips. “But...” He looked at Crowley directly, his gaze gleaming and abundant with adoration. “But...?” His breath shuddered with suppressed want.

Man, woman? Crowley was neither. And he was both.

_He_ was the ‘but’.

“Oh,” Crowley breathed.

Zira’s eyelashes fluttered, an affectionate smile on his lips.

Then his body tensed. “Oh— Good _Lord_, I-I-I didn’t mean to tell you—” He flashed a terrified smile, getting to his feet and bumping the vanity as he did. “I have to go! Right now— Oh, gosh.” He backed away, licking his lips fast, tugging on his waistcoat. “Thank you ff— For such a lovely time. But I really must dash. Don’t— Don’t want to miss the end of Anathema’s class. Right. Yes.”

“Are you all right?” Crowley asked, concerned.

“Sorry? Oh! Perfectly! Yes. Uh, tip-top. Absolutely tickety-boo.”

He fled the room in an awful fluster, shutting the door behind him.

“...Tickety-boo?”

Crowley was almost sure he should have been disheartened that Zira hadn’t had any intention of vocally confessing his attraction, but, well, it had happened now. He knew. Zira was _falling_ for him.

Not a man, and not a woman.

Anthony Janice Crowley was now a creature of pure joy.

  


**♔**

  



	10. Fake Marriage of Little Convenience

For a few minutes after Zira rejoined the congregation in the living room, he thought perhaps he was glowing. Not literally, of course – but after all the relief and excitement and passion he’d felt in the company of Crowley upstairs, sharing secrets, it stood to reason that there would be a change in his posture, or his facial expression. He was happy from the inside out. In short: glowing. That had to be why the children and Anathema and Newt were looking at him so often.

He took a seat at the table, cheerfully asking, “So! What did I miss?” and nodding along when the kids took it in turn to explain how fire worked.

They were looking at him quite oddly, however.

Zira started to worry the children could somehow _see_ that he’d accidentally revealed his attraction to Crowley. He started to feel less glowy and more worried. He patted at his clothes surreptitiously, tried to fix his hair – he had no idea what was wrong.

It was Anathema who saved him – she asked, carefully, “Do you need a bandage or something?”

“Pardon?”

She touched her cheek. “You’re hurt?”

Zira touched his own cheek – lowered his fingers to look at them, and his temperature soared, seeing red. But it wasn’t blood – it was tinted lip salve. “Ah. Yes! Yes, little mishap with the, the, um. Upstairs. Yes. Nasty business.” He rummaged in his pockets for a handkerchief, found one, and made quick work of wiping away the evidence of Crowley’s affections. Nobody would ever know.

Except, as soon as that commotion was over, another began.

A woman in the hallway yelped in shock. All the children looked to the hallway, work forgotten. An albino maid hurried into the living room, a hand over her mouth. Winnie followed, looking at Anathema in a panic.

“What’s wrong?” Anathema asked, coming out from behind the table and going to her maids – only to see the cause of the fuss, and starting to laugh. She returned to the table, chuckling.

Zira craned back in his chair, wanting to see. He didn’t need to wait long: he saw the slow descent of a black dress on the stairs. Heard the pocks of steady heeled boots. Saw a pale hand slide down the banister.

“Oh, Crowley,” Zira breathed, smiling. “You mad little thing.”

For a moment, as Crowley entered the living room, Zira saw what the others saw: a tall, elegant woman in dark glasses and a small, jaunty black hat, her hands held neatly on her middle, her lips and cheeks perfectly rouged to match her fiery red curls. Her shoulders were bare but for a black shawl that hung over her, keeping her modest. She was poised. She was relaxed. And she was ready to make trouble.

“Who’s _that_,” Brian said.

“Isn’t it _obvious_?” Pepper snarked. “It’s the evil Black Knight.”

“Evil, dear?” Crowley tilted his head, speaking softly.

“_I_ think he looks lovely,” Zira said, getting up and going to Crowley, who smiled as he approached. “Not evil at all.”

“Oi,” Crowley complained, in a gentler version of his usual voice. “A bit evil.”

“Oh, just a bit?” Zira said, realising Crowley had given them both away: the children had seen rouge on his cheek, and now rouge on Crowley’s lips, and adding two and two was something they were well-practised at by now.

The maids stood by, staring, making aghast noises.

Zira supposed he should probably rescue the situation, and Crowley, so announced, as casually as he could, “Anyway, well done! Perfect costume! I’m sure this is exactly what the children had in mind – f-for their... game.”

The kids, being smart examples of their species, picked up on Zira’s uneasy tone, and turned to Anathema, begging in a clamouring quartet, “Can we play now? Please, please, pleeeaase—”

Anathema shared a fast glance with Zira, who looked worried, and Crowley, who looked bemused, but was starting to look guilty, as if only now realising he might’ve done something that could endanger the entire household, yet again. But, like always, Anathema smiled that smile of hers, and replied to the children: “Sure.” She reached out softly, adding, “Just... stay inside the house.”

The kids hissed, “Yesssss,” and rushed away from their schoolwork, and towards Zira and Crowley. Both were taken by the hands – quite by surprise – and dragged towards the open space in the room, where Zira’s footstool usually was.

“Oh— Oh, alright, alright, not so fast,” Zira uttered, relieved to see the maids consorting, and then turning away to leave, only looking back a few times. “I’m not as sprightly as I used to be, you four.”

“She’s the most _evil_ of the Black Knights,” Adam said, pointing at Crowley. “A deadly spy, captured while travelling undercover through marked Resistance land. And you, you’re the leader of the Resistance.”

“I am?” Zira puffed up in gratification. “Oh. Thank you very much.”

“What are we actually going to do with them, Adam?” Wensley asked, blinking his huge eyes behind his spectacles.

“We have to end the war, obviously,” Pepper said, arms folded. “There’s no point otherwise.”

“They should have physiologi—” Brian started. “Zycologic. Long talks. About politics and stuff.”

“‘Xactly. You’ve been captured,” Adam said to Crowley, taking both his wrists and handing them to Zira. Zira took them, holding them between thumbs and fingers like his hands were handcuffs. “And now you have to torture her for information.”

“Torture?!” Zira exclaimed. “Absolutely not! I’ll have no part in it!” He let Crowley go. “The Resistance does not stoop to such lows to get information. We’re the _good_ guys.”

“Well, how else do you get her to talk?” Pepper asked. “She has to give up the location of the Black Knights’ base.”

“Base is in Mayfair,” Crowley uttered. “Not exactly a secret. Bombed the shit out of it to claim it. Good central location.”

“There’s _lots_ of ways to get information out of someone,” Zira said haughtily, pretending not to be flustered by Crowley’s cuss. “Make sure our guest feels safe, for one thing. Any prisoner should be treated with respect and dignity.”

Crowley was smiling fondly at him while he said that, which was something Zira tried not to notice.

“Besides,” Zira said, “if he trusts me, I can just _ask_ him for what I need.”

“Ask then,” Adam said.

“Ah... Okay?” Zira blinked. He looked Crowley in the eye. “What... Um. What are the Black Knights planning next?”

Crowley grinned. “How the Heaven should I know, angel? Been _here_ the last, what, two months? Anything they were planning when I got here is over with already.”

“Well, if you _did_ know,” Zira insisted. “You know how they think. What kind of thing _would_ your faction be planning?”

“Mm?” Crowley arched his lips, thinking. It was hard to see his expression behind the dark glasses, but he was apparently making up for it with the rest of his face and body, rolling a shoulder. “There’s that Winter Ball, isn’t there. Wouldn’t mind getting in on that action. Disaster waiting to happen. All the big players of the Resistance in one place? Seems like exactly the kind of thing my lot would give an arm and a leg to gatecrash. Or someone’s arm and leg, anyway. Someone’s gate.”

Zira frowned a bit. “Gatecrash... As in... barge in and stage an attack? While all the Resistance leaders are there... under the impression the Knights don’t know about the event. Potentially... under-armed...”

“Nnnnyup.”

Zira looked over her shoulder at Anathema. Anathema looked back, steely-eyed. She bent and turned to Newt, whispering urgently as he started to nod.

“This is boring,” Pepper said, shaking her head. “What’s the point without torture? You can’t _end_ a war by asking questions and talking, you have to _do_ something about it.”

“Avoiding violence is the only way to find peace, I think you’ll find,” Zira said.

“No,” Adam said, “Pepper’s right, it’s more than that. You can’t just avoid a problem, you have to fix it. And to fix a problem you need to know what the problem is. So what has everyone been fighting over for thirty-four years, exactly?”

Zira and Crowley stared at each other, struggling to find an answer.

“Well, it’s just,” Aziraphale said.

“I mean, obviously, we’re,” Crowley added.

They both realised they couldn’t say for certain what the one big reason was. The war used to be about class divides, and about land and food and taxes and poverty, and then it was about religion, and then it was revenge, more recently followed by the proposed accession of the Resistance-minded monarchy versus the inevitable uprising of the Black Knight military in its place, while no elected government stood firm – and now, frankly, everyone was just angry about everything. War was all people knew, and once a society revolved around perpetuating the fight, thinking about anything else seemed callous. This was their world. There was no single reason to battle each other; there were millions. Stopping would be like losing, and then every life had been sacrificed for naught.

“It’s important, anyway,” Zira said firmly. “Or we wouldn’t be doing it. It’s not up to us little people to know everything about what’s going on. We’re a minuscule part of a gargantuan picture.”

“Pawns on a chessboard,” Crowley agreed. “_Pawns_ don’t know the endgame.”

Adam sighed. “Well, come on, then. How do people end fights?”

“When my parents fight,” Brian said speculatively, head cocked to one side, “they say they have to kiss and make up.”

Wensley sucked in a breath. “I learned in a history book that when countries are next to each other they get the princes and princesses to get married so it’s like the countries get married.”

Pepper nodded. “_They_ should get married.”

Zira looked blankly from Pepper to Adam, then to Crowley. “Who should get married?”

“The Black Knight and the Resistance leader,” Pepper said.

“Wicked,” Adam grinned. “Yeah, let’s do it.”

Crowley and Zira made eye contact, and then hurriedly un-made it, eyes dropping to their hands, which, at some point – Zira truly didn’t know when – had reconnected, Zira’s fingers curled around Crowley’s wrists.

“They’ve been sneaking out of their home bases,” Adam said. “Secretly, to see each other and exchange information—”

“Under the cover of darkness!” Pepper added, leaping in her socks onto the sofa, arms raised dramatically. “They have a private, secret encampment—”

“So this is the fire from their camp,” Brian said, kneeling and sweeping his arms towards the fireplace, making the flames flicker in the air gust. “The smoke signals will give them away so they can’t stay long—”

“Actually, the firelight itself would give them away,” Wensley said. “It’s a hot fire and hot fires don’t make as much smoke, we just learned that. And light travels infinite distances, so if there’s no hills—”

“_Alright_,” Adam said, “so they’re in a deep, dark forest. But someone will find them eventually, and they have to be back at their bases before anyone discovers where they went. People already realised they’re gone.”

Crowley looked between the children, with the growing feeling that he’d come down here only to become some kind of sentient doll. Nevertheless, he smiled, gazing at Zira, as Zira followed the storyline with unmasked suspicion.

“They revealed their secret relationship to one person...” Adam reached for Pepper, yanking her off the sofa, “A monk! A monk who knows all the marriage rites because she went to a wedding when she was ten.”

Anathema and Newt hastened out of the room, carrying a pen and a letter they’d started writing, whispering worriedly. Zira watched them go, but while his eyes lingered on their departure, his attention returned quickly.

“The Black Knights are coming!” Brian shouted, clambering onto the sofa, running across it and jumping off the other end, knocking Crowley’s fern to the floor, spilling soil everywhere. “Stampeding through the forest! You’re both going to be—”

“Captured!” Adam nodded. “Captured and tortured and brutally murdered!”

“Oh, _no_,” Zira complained.

Pepper snorted. “Please. That’s just the reality of the situation.”

“Excuse me, I beg to differ! The Black Knights may be morally corrupt, yes, but this is a game, we won’t _actually_—”

“Just roll with it, angel,” Crowley smiled. “Don’t have time to argue, do we?”

“I suppose not,” Zira said, warily.

Crowley added, “Can see the light of their pitch torches through the trees. Minutes left. Come on, Monk. Before they reach us, eh?”

Pepper stood on the sofa again, opening up a random book and pretend-reading, excitedly, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to witness the joining of— Of— Wait, who are they?”

“A. J. Crowley, a brave and beautiful Knight of Mayfair,” Zira said. “And—”

“And Sir Zira Fell, Angel of Westminster,” Crowley said, a little more softly than he meant to.

“Yeah, them,” Pepper said, bouncing on the sofa. “O, Lady Crowley—” Crowley grinned, “do you take thee, Zira’vWessmincer, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love and hold and—”

“No time!” Wensley yelped. “NO TIME!”

Crowley startled. “What— Oh— Yes. Yes. I do? I will. Okay. Mm-hm.”

Zira’s eyes shone, something growing warmer in his expression. His hands slowly slid away from being handcuffs and towards being just hands, palms taking Crowley’s.

“And do you, O Baronet Zira Fell, take Crowley to be your wedded—”

“Husband,” Crowley whispered, as Pepper said, “Wife—”

“Quickly, quicklyyyyy,” Brian said, waving his arms frantically at the fire, making it splutter and spark. “The Knights are so close you can hear them! They can _smell_ you!”

“To have and to hold in-sickness-and-in-health ‘till deaTH DO YOU PART OH NO THEY’RE HERE.”

Pepper clutched her chest like she’d been shot with an arrow, and fell to the forest floor.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Zira cried, letting go of one of Crowley’s hands to reach for the monk. “Are you badly hurt?”

“Just...” Monk Pepper rasped, with her last breath. “Run...!”

Zira gasped as Monk Pepper died with a loud “bleh”, tongue out. He got to his feet, and Crowley grabbed his arm.

“Quickly, angel. This way!”

“Oh— Good Heavens—” Zira trotted after Crowley’s long leaps, ducking and weaving between dining chair trees. Crowley picked up the hem of his dress – then got to his knees, letting go of Zira to crawl under the table.

Zira bent with his hands on his knees, head cocked to peer under the table. “My dear, are you sure I—”

“They’re after you!” Adam roared, yanking Pepper to her feet. “You can’t worry about dirty trousers!”

All four kids ran up to Zira with a loud war cry, and he tutted and got down to the wooden floor, crawling from the floorboards to the rug. He found Crowley hiding out in the shadows of the table, hugging his knees, a snakish grin shining below his black glasses.

“They won’t find us here, angel,” Crowley whispered conspiratorially, looking around for enemies. “We’re safe.” He took Zira’s hand. Zira wasn’t sure what to say, but held onto that hand.

“Don’t be so sure of that,” Pepper said darkly, peering under the table top. She turned to her fellow Knights. “Men, I’ve found them!”

Brian and Adam reached under the table, taking Crowley by the arm and extricating him from the table. On the other side, Pepper and Wensley took hold of Zira’s overcoat, and dragged him out, and he went in complaint, “Do be careful, please, this _is_ my favourite jacket—”

“Separate them!” Adam roared, shaking a fist in the air. “They’ll never see each other again! Hang them!”

“_Hang_—” Zira frowned. “Do you mean that?”

“Ziraaa!” Crowley shouted in mourning, over by the sofa, being pushed away by determined children. He reached out with a hand. “_Aaaangeelllll_...”

“Crowley?” Zira resisted Pepper’s pushing, struck dumb for a moment by the pain in Crowley’s voice. “Am I really never going to see you again?”

“Never ever ever,” Wensleydale confirmed.

“Oh...” Game or not, Zira didn’t like that one bit. “Crowley— Crowley, come back!” He wriggled away from his captors, who held onto his clothes, so he divested himself of his favourite jacket and scampered across the room, folding forward over the back of the couch, reaching desperately for his lover. “Don’t leave me!”

Crowley snatched for his hand, straining to hold onto it as Adam pulled them away. “Zira...”

“You must fight them!” Zira called. “Fight them – and find me! I’ll be waiting— I’ll never leave you!”

Crowley looked genuinely moved, his mouth wobbled at the corners. “Angel...”

“I’ll wait for you, my dear!” Zira was dragged away again, stumbling back. “Until my last breath!”

Crowley froze, stunned for a bit. Then his face clouded with fresh resolve, and he turned to his captors, bopping them each lightly on the head with an elbow, knocking them out cold, then climbing in his heavy skirts onto the sofa, leaping over the back of it – pausing for a moment to right it before it toppled over – then tottered on his heels to Zira, acting a hard kick into Wensley’s middle (“Oof!”) and then elbowing Pepper in the throat (“Ack!”), then taking Zira boldly around the waist, yanking him close, dipping him a little.

“Now,” he said softly, “Where were we?” He purred at the back of his throat, caressing Zira’s cheek. “Do you take me, angel... to have and to hold, ‘til death do us part...?”

Zira’s smile wobbled, and he nodded, holding Crowley’s hand and the side of his neck, warmed by his curls. “_Beyond_ death, my love. All of eternity.”

Crowley beamed. “Really?”

“Really.” Zira stroked Crowley’s jaw with a thumb, eyes on his lips. “I... I suppose we’re meant to kiss now?”

Crowley wet his lips.

“Of— Of course, we don’t _really_ kiss, do we,” Zira babbled, “Just a silly game, and all that. Don’t... Don’t have to... um...”

“Kiss,” Knight Pepper said, lying on her back on the floor. “_Properly_. On the _lips_.”

“Kiss,” Knight Adam agreed, sprawled across the sofa back, dead but very interested. “It’s not like you haven’t kissed already, we _saw_ the rouge on your cheek.”

“Kiss!” Knight Wensley said, finding a better viewpoint, and dying there.

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” Knight Brian started to chant, arms up, not remotely dead at all.

The others joined in, coming back to life, crowding around, clapping their hands and goading, “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Crowley and Zira’s eyes met, breaths shaking, lips parted.

Zira’s heart was pounding, and not even from all the running around. Crowley’s heart was pounding because it did that an awful lot these days, reminding him he was alive. He’d never been more alive than in this moment.

_kISS KISS Kiss kiss kisS KISS_—

The chant faded into the background.

There wasn’t much thinking to be done. If anyone else asked what was happening, why they dared – it was the children, they _made_ them do it.

Zira held onto Crowley, Crowley held onto him... They hesitated a couple of times, nosing close, sharing breath, inching away again... Eyes met, eyes lowered. Eyes shut. Hearts throbbing far too hard.

With a helpless sigh, their resolve yielded, and they nudged against each other, heads turned, a soft press on the lips.

They fell apart, Zira covering his mouth with both hands as his body went up in flames. Crowley was swaying on the spot, one hand combing casually back through his hair, knocking his hat clean off. “Hee,” he said.

“YeeEAAAAH!” the children cheered, grabbing Zira and Crowley and shaking them roughly, and they wobbled where they were shaken, dazed and smiling.

“The war is over!” Adam yelled. “Victory!”

“Hold on,” Pepper said. “Hooow does getting married end the war? And _who_ declared victory, exactly?”

“Shh,” Crowley whispered, winking at her, but nobody saw the wink behind the glasses. He laughed and shook his head.

“They’re legitimate questions,” Pepper retorted. “Don’t you shush me. I will not be patronised.”

“N-n-nn, I wasn’t—”

“Well,” Zira said, fetching his jacket and turning the sleeves right-way-in again, “it is a _known_ fact that if groups see an example set by their leaders or peers, they tend to follow suit.”

“Ch’yeah,” Crowley scoffed. “Let’s see Duke Gabriel fall head over heels for Lord _Beelzebub_, _that_’ll be the day. They have nothing whatsoever in common.”

“It happened for us...?” Zira said. The tenderness in his eyes sparked hot – and he added, hurriedly, “For Lady Crowley and-and-and the... the _other_ me. Just now. In the game.”

Crowley pushed a stray curl out of his face. “And... for us. Real us.”

Zira blushed, going still and quiet. “Yes... I suppose it did.” He lowered his face, but his eyes flicked up to meet Crowley’s again, just for a moment.

“Sorry about the flower,” Brian said, looking down at the mess on the floor, all the fronds of the fern flopped to one side. “Anathema’s going to tell me off for making a mess again.”

“Actually, it’s not a flower, it’s a houseplant,” Wensley said, picking up the fern as Brian picked up the metal pot, and together they repotted it.

“And it’s not Anathema’s, it’s mine,” Crowley said, holding the plant pot as Brian scooped the dirt from the ground and crammed it beside the roots. “It’s my mental health support plant.”

“What’s that mean?” Adam asked.

“Um.” Crowley glanced at Zira.

“It means he shouts at it when he gets stressed out,” Zira said, annoyedly.

Crowley smirked. “I shouted at it three times, angel, barely counts.”

“Five times,” Zira corrected. “That I know of.”

“Not for a while, though,” Crowley realised.

Zira shrugged. “Maybe you haven’t been as stressed lately.”

Crowley pursed his lips to hide a smile.

“I think Pepper could do with a mental health support plant,” Wensley said. “To absorb all of her angry yelling.”

“I don’t _yell_, I _express_ with _passion_,” Pepper said. “And if I _am_ angry, _Wensley_, it’s for a pretty good reason.”

Crowley hugged the pot to his middle, looking at the plant. It did look somewhat less stressed than a few weeks ago – even after toppling right off a table and spilling its dirt everywhere. Now it had been repotted with care, it even looked... perky. Not a dead frond in sight.

He drew a breath, then let it go. “Here,” Crowley said, handing the plant to Pepper. “Needs water once a week, but let it drain out. And make sure it gets a patch of direct morning sunlight – but otherwise keep it in the shade, so it thinks it’s on a forest floor. Maybe by a sink or bath or something, it likes the humidity. And you don’t have to yell at it, just... tell it some opinions sometimes. It’ll help you figure out what you really wanna say.”

Pepper stared at Crowley. “You’re seriously giving me your plant?”

“I’m... giving you a creative outlet,” Crowley tried. He snatched back his hands, wiping them on his dress. He looked at the other dumbfounded kids. “You can share it. Handy little thing. Good listener.”

“Thanks,” Pepper said, confused. She pondered the plant, then shrugged, and accepted it.

  


**♔**

  



	11. Nothing to Worry About

Crowley and Zira took dinner privately in the sunroom, and ate as the sun went down but there was still enough purple light to see by. Anathema and Newt had taken the carriage out, returning the children from whence they came.

After the children’s game, Crowley had gone upstairs to change, and had come down in one of those black blouses and the skinny trousers he liked, plus the sunglasses.

Crowley was the first to set aside his plate, but Zira served himself seconds from the dining room table. Crowley took off the sunglasses, pondering a fern by the conservatory’s sofa. Then he pondered Zira.

“Hey, angel...”

“Hum?”

“You don’t mind, do you? That I... gave away your gift. The plant.”

Zira looked up from the plate on his lap, knife and fork in hand. His curious expression melted to affection, and he cooed, “Oh, no, Crowley. Not in the slightest! It was all yours to give away. In fact,” his cheeks rose as he smiled, “I thought the gesture was rather sweet. I dare say those children are growing on you.”

“You make them sound like some sort of mould.”

“I mean you’re quite fond of them now,” Zira tutted, poking food onto his fork. “Going along with their game like that. Very gracious of you.”

Crowley fiddled with the waist tie on his trousers, which he’d fashioned into a bow. “Was... kind of fun.” He breathed out, relaxing. He stretched long on the couch, boots up on the cushions. The gloom was overtaking outside, but for a lilac glow on the horizon, washed side-to-side by blue-brown clouds with an orange outline.

In the weeks gone by, the snow on the lawns had not been replenished as often as before, leaving the grass patchy and pale, and the steps and walkways slippery. But, now, as Crowley watched the last of the sun rays swallowed up by wiry, brittle branches and distant hillscapes, he saw a faint fleck of white whisk past the window.

“Hey,” he grinned.

Zira was sipping on his tea.

“Hey,” Crowley said again, eyes on the window, arm reaching for Zira and waggling it. “Look. Looklooklook.”

With a chirp of intrigue, Zira got up and sat by Crowley; Crowley scrunched up his legs and then lay them over Zira’s lap as he drank his tea.

Together they watched the snow start to fall. White looked cerulean in the drenching darkness, each fleck joined by a dozen others as they hurried downwards, covering the darkness of trees in the grounds, speckling everything, gradually turning the patchy ground smooth and featureless.

Crowley wore a content smile, a halting suspense in his chest that felt a lot like worry, but was the opposite. Anticipation.

After a while, Crowley saw a shape in the foggy distance. It was black and huge and moved slowly.

“...What is that...?” An uneasy note trembled Crowley’s voice.

Zira saw it too. They watched as it drew nearer.

“Can’t be that great yellow-eyed man-eating beast,” Crowley said lightly. “Because that’s just something... something Anathema made up.”

The shape ambled closer, closer, rocking, looking more and more menacing. Crowley waited with bated breath to see a flash of yellow as it looked at him...

But the beast passed by the conservatory’s side, and – with a whip of a breeze, the snow went elsewhere for just long enough for Crowley to sigh in relief.

“Just a horse,” Zira realised.

“Nothing to worry about, angel,” Crowley said, although he didn’t quite believe it for a few more seconds. He soon smiled, and plucked Zira’s tea from his hand, taking a sip.

Zira tapped Crowley’s knee in admonishment. “And you had me so worried. You and your ‘great beast’. Huh! Silly. Just a horse.”

Crowley watched the horse go, led by the stocky, upright form of the driver, Wignall. Anathema’s carriage must’ve just pulled up home. Now Wignall was returning the steed to the stables for the night.

“Wonder how long it’ll be until you and I can go riding,” Zira mused, as the horse and the driver stepped out of sight. “Your leg’s doing much better, after all...” He eyed Crowley hopefully.

“_You_ like riding?” Crowley asked. “Really?”

“Well, I like going outside for a turn about the garden. Can’t say I’ve done much of that since you’ve been here. There’s a lovely hideaway with a fountain, a bit of a ride from here. I’ve never seen it in winter... At least if we took horses we could go further than a local stroll.”

“Ahcck,” Crowley rasped. “Hard on the buttocks, horses. Major design flaw if you ask me.”

Zira pouted. “_You’re_ hard on the buttocks.”

Crowley tilted his head and smirked.

Zira blushed. “Oh, shut up.”

“I said nothing.”

“You were thinking.”

“I was not.”

“Ha,” Zira said slyly. “You said it, my dear, not me.”

Crowley snuffled, letting his grin spread wide.

Zira took back the teacup once Crowley was done. He sipped up the dregs, then set aside the cup and settled back into the cushions with a wiggle and a satisfied sigh.

Crowley watched him for a while, feeling his heart squeeze.

“What?” Zira asked, noticing Crowley’s smile. “What are you thinking now? If indeed you are thinking at all.”

“I’m thinking,” Crowley said, turning around on the couch, then lying down with his head on Zira’s lap, looking up at him and the snow falling on the glass roof, “that I’m a very lucky bastard.”

Suddenly Zira had to work through his shock at this new intimacy, but after about ten seconds of hesitations, he sank a hand into Crowley’s hair, stroking through it. “Are you, now?”

“Mm-hm.” Crowley shut his eyes. He drew a breath, rolled onto his side, and nuzzled Zira’s thighs, looking out at the darkening room. “Very lucky, very happy bastard.”

“Happy?”

Crowley’s eyelashes fluttered, staring at Zira’s crossed ankles and tidy brown-leather shoes.

Happy? Did he mean that?

He considered the softness in his chest, and the gratitude he felt, and the absolute bliss he experienced as Zira stroked his hair. And, not least, he took note of the absence of darkness inside him, even as they basked in the gloom together. Crowley had been lifted from a near-lifetime of emotional torture, healed of physical pain, given a friend – several friends – offered trust, and safety, and allowed the freedom to express his innermost desires in a fun, comfortable situation... and now...? For a while he’d been wondering if he was pushing his luck, staying here even though his leg was healed. But he concluded now that he’d still been healing afterwards, in ways other than physical. No doubt there was still some ways to go, and it wouldn’t always be as easy as this moment, but... yes. This was good. He was good.

“Yeah,” Crowley breathed, still on the verge of surprise. “Yeah, I’m...” He grinned and exhaled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been happy before. But I am. I’m happy.”

Zira slid a hand to touch Crowley’s heart, as the other kept stroking his hair. “I’m so glad to hear it,” he whispered.

  


**♔**

  


Everett Ephram Wignall tossed another forkful of hay into Ophelia’s trough, then propped the pitchfork against the stall border, one hand stroking down the horse’s soft nose. As he stroked, he puffed on his cigar, and felt the chill of the snow melting away. Ophelia soon snorted at him, and swayed her giant head away to munch at her dinner.

“We’re here, Mr. Wignall,” Winnie said, entering the dim stables carrying a metal lantern, a knitted shawl wrapped around her shoulders. An orange gloss painted highlights on her black cheeks and wide nose, reflecting the candle flame. “What did you want?”

“Take a seat, all of you.” Wignall gestured to a milking stool, an upturned apple crate, and a chair with a tatty cushion on it. He tucked his thumbs into the small pockets on his waistcoat, waiting as three fellow staff members approached, murmuring among themselves, eager eyes pinpointed with light.

“This is about that Black Knight, innit?” asked Bertha, the scullery maid, a girl of sixteen with hair and skin as fair as the snow, eyes pink around the rims.

“It is,” Wignall nodded. “Sir Crowley.”

“I saw ‘im today, what he came downstairs wearin’— Really does ‘ave the devil in ‘im. Me mam would’ve fainted dead if she’d seen, she would’ve.”

“Mm. Stealing the good Lady’s clothes, too,” Cook Li Na said, holding the armrests of the cushioned seat as she lowered her wide frame into it. “He’s getting bolder. Before it was just the clothes Master Pulsifer leaves behind, but then...? Our Lady’s blouses, and the boots! And then the _dress_—! Not even mentioning that now he can walk again, he walks like some city jezebel – there’s nothing good nor natural about him.” Cook clutched the cross around her neck. “He is a beast. He’s _the_ beast, I’d swear it.”

“I... I don’t think he’s that bad...?” Winnie had claimed the apple crate, hugging her shawl closer. “My Lady trusts him. But he’s a Black Knight... Who _knows_ what he’s done that we don’t know about? That _she_ doesn’t know about? I’m worried for her. I couldn’t bear to see her hurt. Or anyone else.”

“Dangerous,” Cook nodded, then shook her head, eyes haunted. “He’s a bad seed.”

“Seems we’re all in agreement,” Wignall grumbled. His sun-withered face was cast halfway into shadow by the flickering lantern at their feet, lighting his chin and his nose. The tip of his cigar flared red. He shifted in place to steady his weight, then murmured, “Our Lady tonight spoke mighty urgently, in conversation with Master Pulsifer on the journey back from Tadfield. I’ll admit I ‘eard little of what they said, but I ‘eard enough to know... This Crowley, this Knight, he ain’t been kept privy to the Black Knights’ forthcoming plans. He doesn’t _know_ anything. He makes guesses. But all this waiting we’ve been doin’, waiting for him to recover, waiting for him to _trust_ us—”

“It’s not gonna ‘appen, is it,” Bertha said, disgruntled. “We’ve been keeping ‘im around, fattening ‘im up for nothing. Some goose _he_ is. All feathers and no meat.”

“What he _is_ is a danger to us,” Cook Li Na uttered, head in her hands. “All these months – I’ve been terrified to go into town just for fresh vegetables, worried – worried someone would find out, asking why I need so many carrots...”

“Aw, _you’re_ all right,” Bertha laughed. “That tubby Baronet eats enough for three. And then ‘e takes seconds.”

Cook laughed, but stopped laughing. “Now look, Sir Zira’s been nothing but kind, girl, don’t you tease him.”

Bertha shot Cook a sorry look. “Just sayin’ though, eh? I’ve drawn that Knight so many baths and arranged so many log fires and washed so many of ‘is underpants, and I was the one washin’ a grisly mess out of Sir Fell’s mattress that one time – and every moment of it, I’m wondering if I’m carin’ more for the enemy than I ever got to care for me mam before she passed. She’d turn in ‘er grave five times a day if she saw me. ‘_What’re you doin’, Bertie_,’ she’d ask. Even in me ‘ead, I got no good answer.”

Winnie took a breath to speak. “So what can we do? The Witchfinders are still looking for him...”

“Pah,” Wignall spat. “That Sergeant’s off his rocker. Him and that Army of his, they’re looking for some great, skulking beast roaming the grounds. Last I asked down the pub, the Sergeant’s been patrolling the roads between ‘ere and the town, asking people about their nipples. He’s looking for someone with four or six or eight like a cat! I could throw open Lady Anathema’s door and show the Witchfinder that yellow-eyed bastard, and he’d be wanting Crowley to transmogrify into a beast before he’d make an arrest.”

“What about the rest of the Witchfinder Army?” Winnie asked. “Wouldn’t they listen?”

“Please!” Bertha grinned at Winnie. “When’s the last time you saw a Witchfinder aroun’ ‘ere uvver than Sergeant Shadwell? Ask me, the whole Army up and left after they found that empty armour by the churchyard. Years out here, huntin’ strays, and the one thing that turns up ain’t anythin’ at all.”

“So?” Winnie tensed in frustration. “What do we do about – any of this? Crowley, the Army, the Knights—? We can’t hide an enemy forever. We can’t give him up. We can’t hand him straight to the Knights without endangering ourselves. So what do we do with him, exactly?”

The three women argued over the point, talking over each other, listening, then interrupting again. Wignall watched them, smiling, as they ran their way to the inevitable conclusion.

“We could always... kill ‘im?” Bertha said.

“_Kill_—” Winnie puffed out a flabberghasted breath. “Are you crazy?”

“No?! Me mam would’a said.”

“We can’t kill him,” Cook said, while wondering if they could. “Too risky... It’ll be too obvious! We’d be found out—”

“Not if it looked like it was done by the other side,” Wignall said smoothly, saying what he’d been waiting to say. “We only found out _today_ he’s dry of information. But the Black Knights – they think he knows things, don’t they. They think he’ll give up vital secrets to the Resistance, after he’s been sheltered and pampered by them all winter. He’ll foil their upcoming attacks. So he’s a danger to them. One of their own went missing in broad daylight – so we have to assume the Knights’ve been looking for Sir Crowley for three months, all winter. And all of _us_, we’ve kept our word... spoken of his presence to no-one...”

The women nodded, nervous.

“But that doctor,” Wignall said, head tilting into the spooky light, plucking his cigar out of his mouth between curled fingertips, letting smoke follow. “The doctor who bandaged him, strapped his leg the first night he was ‘ere. She talked non-stop when we rushed back here that night. She put her head out her cab window so I could hear her gabble about everything from biscuits to archery to whether Satanists actually worship the devil or a goat. Woman had a loose tongue. And a good doctor’s hard to come by in these parts – she tends to all, Knight or Resistance. Nothing stopping her sharing the other side’s secrets. If the Knights came ‘ere to eliminate Crowley, we’d know who to blame for givin’ up the location.”

Winnie was shaking her head. “We can’t commit _murder_—”

“It’s war, love,” Cook said quietly. “It’s not murder when it’s war. That demon is here under our roof, and if anyone finds out he’s here, it’s _our_ lives in the balance. It’s us or him, always was. We just put too much faith in Lady Anathema the day she brought him here to see how dangerous he’d be. Look, Mr. Wignall’s right. Best we off Crowley now then wait for the actual Black Knights to find him, and God forbid we ever find out what they’ll do to _us_.”

“But she’s—” Winnie began to sob. “Lady Anathema, she likes him...”

“We’d be protectin’ ‘er, Winnie,” Bertha said, leaning to hold Winnie’s hand. “We’d be protectin’ Lady Anathema. It’s not just that ‘e acts like ‘e trusts ‘er, look – it’s that she trusts _‘im_. That’s dangerous in times like this, innit. He’s manipulated ‘er into carin’ for ‘im, and now we’re the only ones left who see past the lies.”

“Not to mention,” Cook began, “if he really can’t be trusted, what’s to say he won’t up and leave us when spring comes and he doesn’t need shelter from the cold anymore? He’s been spying on us this whole time. He’s going to slither right back to his Knights, tell them everything about us, and we’re dead meat anyway. Only way to stop it all is to stop _him_. Stop him dead.”

Wignall nodded, crouching down to look at Winnie carefully. “Listen to your friends, Miss Winnie. If you care about Lady Anathema, and I know you do – then all of us, we’re going to have to do the thing she’s too far gone to do. We have to save her. And save ourselves.”

Winnie wept, but placed a hand over her mouth, holding back any further arguments.

Wignall shared a solemn look with Cook Li Na, and she nodded.

“We’d be war ‘eroes,” Bertha said quietly. “And nobody would ever know it but us.”

  


**♔**

  



	12. The Race

“Zira! Zirrrraaaa, wake up—” Crowley grasped Zira’s arm and shook him in the bed. “Wakeupwakeupwakeup—”

“Hnngh?” Zira squinted against the morning light, wiping his eyes. “Whmm? Crowley...”

“Get up!” Crowley took the covers and tossed them back, making Zira moan in complaint. “It snowed!”

“I know it _snowed_, you idiot, I watched it falling with you last night.”

Crowley slammed his hands into Zira’s mattress and leaned his face close as Zira sat up. He grinned vivaciously, eyes gleaming gold. “You don’t understand. It _snowed_. A lot. Up to my ankles.”

Zira patted for his blanket. “All the more reason to stay in bed and sleep.”

“Nnnnooo,” Crowley moaned, tugging back the blanket again. “I can _walk_ now, angel! We could go out riding!”

“But... cold,” Zira pouted.

Crowley pouted harder. He’d tied the front sections of his hair back behind his head, the rest of it left wavy to his shoulders. He looked both stunning and windswept. He’d clearly been preparing for a ride, and really, it would be cruel to let him down.

Zira scowled. “Fine!” He swept his legs out of bed, shoving Crowley away. “But we’re having breakfast first. I’m not going out in weather like this without a full stomach.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, but stuck his hands in his pockets, and very politely said nothing else until Zira was up and dressed and ready to go downstairs.

It was less breakfast and more brunch, given Zira had slept several hours past the maid’s knock on his door. Zira internally acknowledged that Crowley had been exceptionally patient, waiting and waiting before pouncing on the bed to wake him.

He was even more patient now, allowing Zira to butter his toast, cut it into soldiers, crack his boiled egg, season it – then dip, eat, crunch, and swallow, a dozen times over until the toast was gone and the egg was all but a mess of shell in the eggcup.

Crowley ate too, but he was done in five minutes, and spent the rest of the hour sitting opposite, one elbow on the table, fist under his chin, gazing at Zira and saying nothing. He had some coffee a while in. Then he gave up and had porridge, seasoned with nutmeg and cinnamon, liquorice, cloves, and currants, which he mumbled made it taste like Christmas.

“Christmas _is_ only a few days away now,” Zira nodded. “Can you believe it’s been snowing since October? As pretty as the snow is, I’m rather looking forward to spring.”

Crowley licked his spoon clean, thinking to himself that he was glad for such a long, cold winter. There was no telling what would’ve become of him if the snow wasn’t so deep, the day they met...

He loved the snow.

He’d loved ever since it saved his life.

It was basically lunchtime by the time they got around to putting on their coats and boots. Zira slipped some of Cook’s roast beef, red lettuce, and cream cheese sandwiches into his coat pockets, wrapped in beeswax cloth, in case they got peckish later. Crowley put on his sunglasses and fussed with the black cuffs on his borrowed overcoat, another of Anathema’s. He propped up the collar, revealing a red underside, and suddenly it suited him.

“Ready?” Zira asked.

“Are _you_ ready, is the better question,” Crowley said, pulling on a pair of leather gloves and a black scarf, as Zira donned suede gloves with inner fleecing.

“I’ll know if I’m ready once I’m out there,” Zira said, opening the door for Crowley. They stepped out into the freezing air, and made their way down the salted steps and to the thick carpet of snow.

It was a bit of a journey around the manor, heading for the stables, but they made it within a couple of minutes, sighing out massive white clouds, sniffing through numbing noses.

“Aah,” Zira said, seeing Wignall sweeping up hay. “Good day, my fine fellow. Might my friend and I trouble you for a pair of horses? We’d like to take a ride out.”

Wignall bowed his head to Zira. “‘Course, sir. Miss Winnie said you’d be down soon. Got the horses ready for you.” He sized up Zira’s shape and height, making Zira self-conscious for a moment, but then Wignall cocked his head and led them through the stable to a stall, opening up the gate and clucking to a roan horse, who emerged dark nose first, the rest of her following. She was already saddled up. Warm brown colouring rose up her flanks like flames, her pelt speckled by lighter spots, her mane and tail all black, except for the golden ends. “This here’s Cornelia, but I call her Nellie.”

“Oh, she’s lovely,” Zira said, reaching to pet Nellie’s nose, gratified when she only flinched once, then nudged at him.

“And you...” Wignall looked more coldly at Crowley, and Crowley refused to react, staring the man down with some defiance. Wignall chuckled, then set fingers to his lips and whistled.

Crowley turned as a gradual clip-clopping came up the stable. The black monster he’d seen last night looked him in the eye now, her eyes brown, her attention eager.

“Ophelia,” Wignall said. “You’d best be careful with her, Sir Crowley, she’s the cleverest horse you’ll ever meet. She’ll kill you if you don’t treat her right.”

Crowley gulped. Ophelia was three inches taller than him, not counting the pricked-up ears. “Y-You, um. Don’t have anything. Smaller. Do you?”

Wignall gave him a slow grin. “No,” he said.

Crowley accepted Ophelia’s reins with an uncertain hand.

“Come along, Crowley,” Zira said, happily taking Nellie to the mounting block, stepping up and climbing on. He settled quickly, then clucked his tongue to lead his horse to the edge of the stables, swaying on her back.

Crowley breathed out carefully, heading for the mounting block – only for Ophelia to remain behind. Crowley gave her reins a tug. She gazed at him coolly.

“Please?” Crowley asked.

Ophelia snorted.

“Give him Hell, Ophelia,” Wignall uttered – and only they did she jolt to life, rearing up slightly on her back legs, tossing her head, and then deciding to trot on, bypassing Crowley and waiting at the block.

Crowley climbed on in hesitant stages, wondering at each stage whether he was actually as far from being suicidal as he’d thought. He ought to back out of this madness now. Share Zira’s horse. Better yet, feign a cold. Complain about the temperature affecting his bad leg. Claim he was getting frostbite and go back inside.

And yet he mounted the demon horse, and she took him steadily to the open side of the stable, where Zira waited, smiling back. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

“Ready, angel?” Crowley asked.

“Are _you_ ready, is the better question, I think,” Zira remarked. “Are you quite all right?”

Crowley nodded. “Mm-hm,” he squeaked.

After a moment of doubt, Zira accepted his answer, and they started off together, walking their horses around the stables, around the back of the manor, and then out towards the gardens.

There were trees frozen to sticks out here, evergreen firs near-blackened and capped with white. The paths were untrodden, the snow thick and crisp. The horses’ hooves broke the surface with sweeping hisses, crunching down, crunching down.

They made it three minutes into their journey before Crowley realised he’d overtaken Zira by about ten paces. He looked back and saw the estate behind them, a champagne-white block upon a backdrop of cool blue – and Zira on his rose-grey mare, ambling at as steady a pace as ever.

“Is it just me, or is Ophelia in a hurry?” Crowley asked, tugging on her reins to slow her. She resisted, yanking her head, and going faster.

“Crowley?” came Zira’s cold-brisked voice. “Where are you off to?”

Crowley tried to look back over his shoulder as his horse surged on. “It’s not me, it’s the blasted horse!”

“Tell her to slow down!”

“I _did_!” Crowley pulling firmly on the reins, only for Ophelia to launch into a proper trot, lifting hooves high out of the snow, plunging on and on, thumping Crowley’s buttocks on the hard saddle. He gasped, looking around, then back at Zira, who was half the size he was before. “Angel!”

Zira kicked Nellie into a gallop, catching up, then overtaking, turning to block Ophelia’s path. But Ophelia gave a rough snort and sprayed up snow as she navigated around Nellie – and went from a trot to a canter, streaking out of the estate’s bordered grounds and into a more enclosed forest.

“Shit shit shit shit shIT SHIT SHIT,” Crowley breathed, hands wound around the reins, snarling. His scarf came loose and flew like a flag behind him, flapping, whipping at his back. “Ophelia, slow down! Slow d— Yeek!” Crowley found himself mid-leap, rising in the saddle and then _slammed_ back down, having vaulted a short set of stone steps. “Damn horse! What the Hell are you trying to do, kill me-_eee_—?”

Ophelia bucked to a sudden halt, head down, and Crowley shrieked, arms wrapping around her neck reflexively – his body slid head-first over the horse’s nose, and he flipped, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the stone walkway, instead landing with a bump, buttocks to the frosted ground.

He stared at the beast, whose massive nose was still gripped in his arms, nostrils flaring as she breathed humid, horsey-scented air down his neck.

He let go and sat up. Ophelia was catching her breath.

A few seconds later, the thumping of hooves on the stone came up in a hurry behind Ophelia, followed by the rush and sizzle of Nellie clambering over frozen plants to overtake Crowley and his mad horse. Zira was out of breath, one hand on his heart. “Oh, my dear. Oh, I’ve never seen a horse go so fast.”

“Or stop so suddenly,” Crowley uttered hollowly, getting himself halfway to his feet, helped the rest of the way once Zira had dismounted. “If she wasn’t trying to end me...” Crowley managed a quick smile, “I’d almost think that was fun.”

“Fun?” Zira looked aghast. “Darling, you could’ve split your head open!”

Crowley was so distracted by the horse that it took him several seconds to register that Zira had called him ‘darling’. But even as Crowley’s eyes swung to Zira, Zira was already pacing about, telling him off. “You can’t just run _off_ like that, Crowley! You’re meant to control the animal, not follow its lead!”

“I didn’t— Angel, I swear, it was the horse—” Crowley gestured madly at Ophelia with both hands. “She’s the one with a death wish, not me!”

Zira looked hurt. But then he looked curious.

“Look, I’ll prove it,” Crowley said, performing an impressive feat of gymnastics to set his foot in a stirrup and lift himself onto Ophelia’s back. He flapped the reins, expecting her to go. He tried again. Nothing.

“Walk on?” he tried.

Ophelia chewed at her bit, ignoring Crowley entirely.

“H’yah! _H’yah!_”

“Listen,” Zira said softly, getting back onto his own horse, “Maybe let’s head back to the estate. We can try this another time.”

“Aw, but angel— I wanna see this garden you talked about.”

“Another day, Crowley. Perhaps after you’ve had some riding lessons.”

“Ridi—” Crowley spluttered. “Angel, I’ve been riding for longer than— I’m not messing about, I swear to you— It’s not _my_ fault Wignall dragged this monster straight out of Hell whh—? Aah! Aaaa – eek – aaahaaha – _aaangeeelll_...!”

Zira brought his horse around, staring wide-eyed at the disappearing figure of Crowley on his maddened horse, galloping off down the path.

“Nellie!” Zira cried, kicking her sides. “Go! Go-go-go! After them!”

Nellie’s hooves pounded the stone walkway, metal to ice, leaving whorls of iced brown leaves dancing in her wake, whispering.

Zira had no hope of catching them. Ophelia became a streak of darkness, leaping off the pathway and through a pair of trees, cutting straight through an open field, jumping fences. Nellie hesitated on each fence, but managed to make the jump. It was only after the third fence that Zira realised he’d never jumped on a horse before, and was actually quite good at it. They only knocked over two out of six fences.

Crowley was already out of the field and being swallowed up by another opening in the trees, shadow into shadow.

Zira’s heart raced, chasing nothing but stretched-out pockmarks in the snow now.

The world was almost silent, tense on the ears. Birds sang but went mute as Zira cantered past. The wind hummed low, distantly. Some leaves bristled, clacking together.

“Crowley?” Zira called into the forest. He hurried his horse on, galloping now, going faster than he ever had before, but knowing it wasn’t fast enough.

It was only when he whipped past a big oak tree with a black side that he turned his head, then yelped, pulling Nellie to a trotting halt.

Out of breath – both of them – Zira turned Nellie back to the oak.

Crowley was resting there, boots in the snow, head against the trunk. Ophelia’s long black mane was scrunched under his hand as she held her head down.

“Crowley,” Zira breathed.

“Haitch,” Crowley said, before gulping wetly. “Eee.” He breathed out through narrowed lips. “Double ell.”

“Hel—”

“DON’T SAY IT.”

Birds flew away, shrieking. Crowley’s voice echoed around the glen.

“I don’t know what devil-maker trained her,” Crowley uttered, gaining some strength, pushing off the tree and sauntering to Zira, hands in his coat pockets, “but right now you’d think that’s the only word she knows.”

“Mr. Wignall said she was terribly clever...”

Crowley palmed his forehead, then peered at Ophelia and patted her nose. “She’s clearly a talented horse. Could’ve been a champion racehorse in another life.” He smiled, a little sadly. “Goes for both of us, really. Wasted potential.”

Zira tutted. “Crowley.”

“Just saying!” Crowley impressed, still looking at his horse.

He waited a moment, then glanced up at Zira.

A familiar affection rose to Crowley’s surface as a smile, and he turned the smile to Ophelia. “You know what you need, Ophelia?” Crowley said brightly. “A good friend. A friend who... doesn’t just acknowledge what you are, but... helps you become it. Encourages you. Gives you...” Crowley wet his lips. “Gives you the space to do whatever. The thing you like. Helps you become the thing you always wanted to be.”

Ophelia stared blankly at him. One ear twitched.

“Listen,” Crowley said, looking up at Zira. “I just wanna get to that garden with the fountain in one piece. This damn horse just wants to go fast. Proper-proper fast. And... maybe—”

“Please don’t say we should let her.”

“Well? Maybe we should.”

“She’ll get you _killed_, Crowley.”

“Maybe she will,” Crowley said. “But.” He gulped. “Sometimes... it’s worth putting yourself at risk, isn’t it? Just to see someone else live their dream.”

He’d averted his eyes before Zira could look at him.

It took several long moments, but then Zira sighed, and wrapped his own reins tighter around his hands, and said, boldly, “I’ll race you.”

Crowley looked at him. “Are you serious?”

Zira nodded back, determined. “Nellie and I will gallop as fast as our little legs will carry us. Won’t we, Nellie.”

Nellie chewed a leaf.

Crowley grinned. He clambered onto Ophelia’s back, boots in stirrups, gripping the reins, thighs squeezed tight enough to hold on. “Ready?”

Zira lined his horse up with Crowley’s, both facing the path ahead. “Honestly?” he breathed, “I don’t think any of us are.”

Crowley’s smirk grew. Ophelia’s hoof kicked the snow, head down, snorting.

“On three,” Crowley said. “One.” He exhaled. “Two.” He spared Zira a glance, and Zira nodded, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Three!”

Zira and Nellie shot off instantly. Zira knew the way, so quickly left the path, doubling back through another field. Crowley gave them a five-second headstart before he bent his head low and uttered into his steed’s ears, “Ride like Hell.”

Ophelia burst into a whinny, kicking up from the ground on her back legs – Crowley gasped and held on with both arms, and a good thing too – Opehelia was off like a cannonball, attacking the ground like she hated it, leaving fiery hoofprints in the snow where she trod. She leapt out of the trees and chased Nellie’s flapping black tail, gasping, grunting, thumping thumping thumping Crowley against the saddle. He was bruised numb, and were it not for the absolute thrill that was building in his chest, he might’ve been scared.

They flew through white fields and over the rise of a hill, Ophelia coming up on Nellie’s left flank. Ophelia overtook on the downslope, as she had none of the hesitancy that kept Nellie nervous about falling.

As they passed, Crowley leaned back in the saddle, grinning wildly at Zira. “So long, suckaaaah,” he laughed. Last he saw, Zira’s eyes hardened with fresh resolve.

Once they hit the base of the slope, Crowley gained confidence, and rode easily, sunglasses resisting the ice-cold sting of the wind and protecting his eyes. He went where Ophelia led him, trusting her.

Except then, in the middle of a featureless, flat expanse, he heard hoofbeats coming up heavy behind them, and looked back to see Zira standing in the stirrups, his body raised from the horse’s back like a jockey’s. There was a blaze of conviction in his eyes; he wasn’t about to be left behind.

“Crowley!” Zira called, six gallops back. “You don’t know where you’re going!”

“So?” Crowley called back, “Which way?”

“Right!”

Crowley veered right with a tug on Ophelia’s reins.

They found a path and reconnected under the cover of drooping willow trees, rushing past a frozen pond. Crowley peered at it in awe, mesmerised by a hundred shades of silver and a sweet blue, the smooth surface of the water criss-crossed by what were surely the skate tracks of tiny fairies. Everything sparkled.

“‘Scuse me,” came a polite voice, and Crowley startled and Ophelia leapt left as Zira came up on their right, his horse open-mouthed and wide-eyed, howling with each breath. Crowley set his head down and spurred Ophelia on, and she went roaring, slamming her hooves into the dirt.

They were practically neck-and-neck, all four of them moving faster than they ever had before. Crowley laughed with exhilaration, head back, eyes shut. He glanced at Zira, and saw how he was repressing his terror, but still had no intention of slowing down.

“Almost—” Zira nodded. “Up ahead. Nellie— Nellie, halt! _Halt!_”

The horse turned, legs scampering as her rump lowered, Zira yelling as their weight was thrown low. Crowley didn’t even think to slow down – he saw a clearing approach, and barked in victory as they flew from the path to the opening, hooves striking paving slabs. Ophelia rushed past a gnarled apple tree and a stone fountain with two levels, heading for an ivy-covered wall.

“Ophelia— Oh shit— HELL. _HELL!_ HELL THE FUCK DOWN RIGht nowwwhhhhh...”

Ophelia trit-trotted clockwise around the garden, then came to a casual halt, pretending she hadn’t been prepared to slam them both face-first into solid stone just to prove she would.

Crowley shook his feet from the stirrups, rolled off the horse, and clambered shakily to the ground, where he lay flat on his front, left cheek on the stone floor. His heartbeat was everywhere, hurting his ears, hitting the ground with every beat. The biting cold didn’t even register to his adrenaline-ignited skin.

He heard Zira trot up to him, then dismount.

“I suppose congratulations are in order,” Zira said, standing with his wingtip shoes in Crowley’s eyeline, the only brown thing in a blue world. “That was quite the win, I must say.”

“Nrrgh,” Crowley said. A baby woodlouse wandered past his nose.

“Come on, up you get,” Zira said, patting Crowley’s back until he stirred, accepting help to stand up. Zira brushed his clothes down for him, while Crowley snuffled his face against his inner elbow, brushing off debris.

He stood tall, breathing out. Zira smiled at him. “Well,” Zira chirped. “We made it! Welcome to Eden, my dear.”

Crowley glanced around. A shaft of sunlight peeked out from the clouds and touched this corner of the world, turning silver to gold. And, slowly, Crowley’s jaw dropped, seeing the garden properly for the first time.

A beast who only knew the command of Hell had just brought Crowley to Heaven.

  


**♔**

  



	13. Apple Tree Garden

There was something about imperfection that drew Crowley to certain things, these days. He believed flaws made any given phenomenon completely unique. Special. An unfinished painting. A can of beans with a dent in it. A fern with a brown frond. A lock of platinum-blonde hair out of place after a hard ride. Baronets and Knights with crooked crowns; angels with haloes slipping down. And a garden...

A garden that should’ve been aflush with a hundred greens and manicured to perfection, a fountain that should’ve been flowing high, burbling with water; a pond that should’ve shimmered, an apple tree that, in another life, had been heavy with fruit or light with blossoms; square cobbles should’ve been clean and neat... There were a hundred things this place had been created to be, and it was none of them.

A brutal winter had not only frozen the fountain, but had shattered one side of its upper spout, leaving half the sandstone at rest in the lower basin. There was rainwater in there, iced over with dirt and leaves inside it, snow atop it. The cobbles were wonky and broken, as unapologetically ugly weeds pushed up between each paver. The apple tree was crooked and grey like an old man with a bad back; he rested an elbow on a wall, too tired to stand. Nothing flourished; the world was in eternal stasis.

And yet this place was not dead. Dappled sun touched the edge of everything and played there; blackbirds warbled their pleasant tunes from the nearby copse of trees, and their songs echoed in blissful waves across the courtyard. A breeze tickled the weeds, and they took deep breaths, enjoying the attention.

Crowley swept away snow and sat on the edge of the fountain, astounded. He let the sun warm his face, and the faintest of smiles curled his lips.

Zira sat beside him, taking a content breath, releasing it with a happy hum.

The horses wandered, sniffing around, nibbling at trees, then standing to rest.

It took a minute or two, but the ferocity of the horse race caught up to Crowley’s shocked body. His left thigh began to ache, and he rubbed it with a gloved hand, while his eyes and soul remained distracted away by the view. Then his buttocks began to throb, and he shifted where he sat, only to realise he was being both numbed and burned by the incredible chill that resided in the stone, as it had been collecting it for a while.

He grunted in discomfort. The beauty of an imperfect place ceased to call his attention away this time. He was in pain.

“You all right?” Zira asked, looking Crowley over. “Ohh, I _knew_ this was a bad idea. Are you cold, do you want my coat?”

“Psh, I’m fine, angel,” Crowley said carelessly, pushing up to his feet and making his way to the apple tree, boots brushing aside tangles of weeds as he tried not to limp. He faced the sun and rested his chest on the tree’s sturdy lowest branch, underarms hung over it.

Zira came up beside him. “You should see this place in summer,” he said wistfully. “And in autumn! Oh, the colours...” He placed a hand on the tree’s trunk. “Perhaps you and I could even— _Eep!_” Zira jerked back violently from the tree, flailing his arms like windmills so he didn’t fall. Crowley lurched for him and took his hand, steadying him—

Crowley looked back at the tree, and saw a fluffy grey squirrel bouncing along the branch he’d been leaning on. It peered at them, twitched its puffy tail, then hopped off, jumping to another tree branch and scampering up over the ivy wall.

“That’s right!” Zira squeaked at it. “Be off with you! Shoo!”

The squirrel was gone. And now Zira was breathing heavily, one hand on his chest, the other clutching at Crowley’s like a lifeline. “Good grief. It almost had us both. Phewwhh.”

Crowley gazed at him in awe. He pinched his sunglasses up to give Zira a proper look. “Correct me if I’m wrong, angel,” he began, trembling as he resisted laughter, “but did you just—”

“No! I didn’t!”

“—Get spooked by a _squirrel_?”

“I did not! I did not!” Zira was still gripping Crowley’s hand, all of him tense. “I absolutely did not, and I won’t have you—”

“Pfff— BwaHAAHAHA—” Crowley doubled over in explosive guffaws, both hands clutching his stomach. “AhaHHABhh HAA— Hhfhfhffh—” Crowley peeked up at Zira, seeing him fold his arms and huff crossly. Crowley whee-whee-wheezed and a pressure pounded in his head, all of him shrinking as the air went out of him, unable to inhale as he kept laughing in silence, halfway to the ground.

Zira eyed him. “I’m not _scared_ of squirrels. I’m rightfully wary of their existence, that’s all, and anyway, _look_, you can’t just go around—”

Crowley toppled into him, clutching his waist to stay upright, laughing blind.

Zira snuffled. Then he started to smirk. Then he giggled, and fell into it, infected by the jubilance in Crowley’s breath, if not the reasoning behind it. “Pahahahhah— Crowlehe-he-hee— Oh no—” Zira fell back to the tree, a hand on his tummy, the other on Crowley’s shoulder. They laughed and hugged and almost fell over a few times, shaking, faces flushed, boiling up inside. “Crowleeyyyy, stohhhp... I can’t— I can’t—”

“Heeh eheeeheeh—”

“Stopstopsthhh—”

Breathless, they whispered nonsense out in clouds, warming up completely. The weeds below their meandering, wobbling feet were pushed aside and pressed down, as neither of them could stand still.

Zira sobbed a few times, gasping for breath, tears glistening in the wrinkles below his eyes. “Help— Helphelp me—”

Crowley shook his head, just as unable to sober up.

It went on far too long, and they were soon both dizzy enough to fall down, but they clutched each other, leaning on the tree. They tried schooling their faces straight, cheeks and stomachs aching, and it was quiet for a moment – and then one of them would blow spittle out in an uncontrollable snicker and it would start all over again, crowing and tittering and crying with laughter. It was definitely not about the squirrel anymore, but about the fact that they were still laughing and couldn’t stop.

“Zirahh—” Crowley shook and shivered, trying to swallow, whimpering as he fought for breath. “Need t’ breathe. Need t’ brhh. Whoo. Whoo.”

He shut his eyes, measuring each inhale and exhale with rolling nods. After a few inhales, he flumped against the tree, exhausted.

Zira still sniffed and keened quietly, wiping tears from his face. If Crowley hadn’t known he was laughing, he might’ve looked and sounded devastated.

“Y-You,” Zira managed, trembling as he fell back, resting his left shoulder on Crowley’s chest, forehead against his neck. “You sound like a duck.”

“H-h’whah?”

“When you laugh.” Zira sniffed, wiping his nose on Crowley’s shoulder. “You quack like a duck.”

Crowley grinned hugely. “Says the idiot who beeped like a _rubber_ duck when he saw a squirrel.”

Zira blasted out a laugh but then turned on Crowley and smacked him in the chest. “No! No more! You’ll kill me.”

Crowley held his waist, grinning as he nosed against Zira’s cheek. “At least you’d die happy?”

Zira hummed. He breathed out through his nose. His eyelashes skimmed Crowley’s cheek... eyes rising to meet his. Zira gazed at him for a while. “I suppose I would.”

Crowley’s eyes dipped to Zira’s lips, then back up. Zira smiled for a moment – then stepped away, eyes lowered, his smile dimming with uncertainty.

“Angel?”

“Hm?”

With a “Hnnhk-_ahh_,” Crowley lifted himself to sit on the apple tree’s lowest branch, then shifted along one spot so there was room for Zira. “Not the comfiest of seats. But less of a shock to the buttocks than the fountain. Sit with me...?”

Zira hesitated, but then scrambled up too, scuffing the trunk of the tree with a shoe as he did. He sighed as he sat, soles of his shoes dangling a foot off the ground.

Crowley relaxed for a while, drawing a deep, fresh breath that stung the bottom of his lungs. His head cleared, his vision brightened. He still ached from the laughter but it dulled as the moments passed.

He began to rub his hurting thigh, up and down, up and down. He lifted his left hand and bit his glove off by one finger, lowering his bare hand to his trousers, rubbing again. This time the fabric burned his hand, which was a welcome sensation in this bitter cold.

Zira fussed with his own suede gloves, laying them on his lap. He rubbed his palms together, eyes drifting to Crowley’s thigh. Soon he reached over, hand locked over Crowley’s, rubbing the pain away with him – until Crowley moved his own hand away, curling it into a fist to keep it warm.

Not long after, Crowley bit his right-hand glove off too. Once the pair was set on his knee, Zira knocked them by accident; they toppled to the ground. Zira uttered, “Sorry,” but neither of them chased after the gloves.

Breathing slow, Crowley settled into Zira’s rhythm as he rubbed the hurt thigh, glad for the warmth of his hand, as Zira often had warmer extremities than his own.

Up, down, up, down, knee to crotch, back again.

“Is this helping?” Zira asked.

Crowley nodded.

“You’ll need a hot bath when we get back,” Zira warned. “Or you’ll be aching terribly. Not just your thigh, but everything.”

Crowley hummed, eyes shut. He tried to focus on the rubbing, not the pain.

In fact, he paid so much attention that he noticed when the rhythm slowed. Zira’s direction skewed, and his hand began to slip in a more diagonal fashion, crotch to inner thigh to knee, back again. Crowley pursed his lips, finding the change strange, but not enough that he disliked it.

One more minute, and Zira was only rubbing from the top of Crowley’s thigh to the inner seam of his trousers, back again, and again. Crowley could no longer say it was helping the pain, but it was certainly distracting him from it. He wet his lips and shuffled a little on the branch, parting his thighs by a half-inch, just enough that Zira’s fingers dipped properly between his legs.

Crowley breathed deeply, enjoying the feeling. He liked being touched like that, a warm palm stroking over a sensitive area. As surges of tension rose inside him, a soft groan built at the back of his throat, fading out with a sigh of pleasure.

Small flashes of heat – sparks – began to fire in Crowley’s lower half, and he purred at the feeling, squirming closer to Zira’s hand, wanting more. “Mm...” He swallowed, head back, and he sighed, “Hmmzirahh...”

Zira’s hand stopped.

Then it was snatched away.

Crowley gave a whine of complaint, missing the contact that made him feel so warm – only for a chill to strike him when he realised Zira was embarrassed, holding his own hand now, head down, eyes flashing here and there, trying not to look back.

Zira hadn’t meant to provide pleasurable stimulation. Just... comfort.

Crowley had liked it too much.

Crowley’s heart clenched, and he looked away, holding his own hands between his parted thighs. A cloud of vapour puffed out of him. He didn’t know where to look, or what to think, or what to feel guilty about.

Was it wrong? Was it wrong to like being touched like that? Was it wrong to feel excited and eager when Zira was so close? Crowley’s thoughts became scrambled, clawing at the things he liked and wanted, drowning them in ashen doubts. What if his desire was a bad thing? What if feeling aroused wasn’t just ‘not allowed’ like all the other things Crowley liked, the things Zira encouraged in private – but forbidden entirely because _Zira_ didn’t want it?

Crowley didn’t know what he would do if Zira didn’t want him. These past months he’d rebuilt himself around the knowledge that he, A. J. Crowley, was valued and cared for and... and _loved_. It could be platonic. Crowley cared for Zira deeply enough that he could be content with an intimate platonic friendship. But that didn’t change the fact that Crowley _did_ want more, and being rejected because he felt pleasure crushed not only his current hopes, but the budding dreams he’d just began to have about their entwined future, and started now to re-write his interpretation of every moment they’d shared since the start, doubting, doubting, feeling deep within the dark remainders at his core, however irrational it might be, that Zira rejecting him for one action or one remark or one request meant he was rejecting him entirely. Was Crowley _not_ valued, or cared for, or loved, after all? Had he been wrong this whole time?

“I-I, uh,” Zira stammered. “I’m... cold,” he whispered.

Crowley looked at him, chewed up thoughts going quiet for a moment when he saw the sun shining on his angel.

Zira was rubbing his hands together. “Really is quite chilly, isn’t it,” he said. He cast Crowley a look. “My hands are. Um. Particularly cold.”

Crowley’s eyes dipped to Zira’s gloves, which were on his lap. “Do those not work?”

“Oh!” Zira looked at the gloves. He reached for them – but moved wrong and they fell to the ground. “Oh. Oh dear.” He rubbed his hands together again. “Hm. So cold.”

Crowley’s own gloves were also on the ground.

But he dared not offer a hand, in case Zira interpreted the gesture the wrong way. Zira didn’t want Crowley like that. And Crowley didn’t want to hurt him.

“Brr-rr-rr,” Zira said, rubbing his hands briskly, then cupping them to his mouth and filling them with breath. “Gosh.”

Crowley carried on holding his own hands.

Zira tutted. “Pity I don’t have something warm to hold onto,” he murmured.

“Tuck your hands under your arms, angel,” Crowley said.

Zira frowned. “Well, I _could_. Yes.”

He didn’t.

Zira stared at Crowley for a while. “Dear,” he said, softly. “Did I do something wrong?”

Crowley looked at him. “How do you mean?”

“It’s just that...” Zira looked unsure. “You don’t usually...?” He looked at Crowley’s hands, still clamped between his thighs.

He didn’t finish his sentence, and Crowley didn’t pry.

Eventually Zira said, quietly, “Crowley, I’m not _scared_ of squirrels.”

Crowley snorted.

“Really,” Zira insisted. “I just never happened to find a squirrel I like. I’m sure, though, if I _did_ find a squirrel I could get along with, and I really got to _know_ that squirrel... And trusted him...” Zira licked his lips, gazing at Crowley hopefully. “I might... I might one day be comfortable... petting that squirrel. A little bit. But. But. But, Crowley, squirrels, they’re always. Always going to spook me first. I haven’t petted any squirrels... before. In my life. I’ve never even thought about petting in a way that didn’t make me uncomfortable. It’s only recently that it... it’s been different.”

Crowley stared at him, baffled.

“Crowley, do you understand?” Zira asked. He looked worried, attention skipping between Crowley’s eyes. “I do like... squirrels. I think. But not yet.”

“Angel, what in Satan’s name are you blathering about?”

“You go too _fast_ for me, Crowley,” Zira blurted, despairingly. He blushed and sighed with force, annoyed that he’d had to say it. “I’m— I’m not ready. Not yet.”

Crowley’s brain stopped. He stared. His heart beat in question marks.

“In the meantime – please, for goodness’ sake, just—” Zira forced his hand between Crowley’s thighs, plucking out his hands. He wrenched Crowley’s grip apart, shoved his own hand in, and held tight. Zira practically seethed, refusing to look at Crowley.

Zira’s hand wasn’t even the slightest bit cold. Crowley’s were.

Light dawned on Crowley’s shadowy little cesspit of doubt. “Oh,” he said.

Zira grumbled, but rolled his eyes and smiled.

Crowley started to smile too, though it emerged lopsided. He relaxed, and held Zira’s hand comfortably. Zira relaxed too, letting go of a soft breath, shoulders dropping, swallowing once.

Crowley stroked the side of Zira’s hand with his thumb, and Zira stroked back.

They sat like that for almost a minute. Then Zira blinked a few times, chin tipping down. He shuffled an inch closer to Crowley, still holding hands.

“Hello?” Crowley asked.

“Hello,” Zira replied, pressing his shoulder tight against Crowley’s. He looked at Crowley’s lips. He smiled, then let out a breathy laugh, glancing away, head down.

But then he looked again, licking his own lips.

Crowley hesitated. Was he meant to look away? He didn’t want to be the squirrel who spooked Zira again.

Zira’s breath fluttered. He bit his lip. He met Crowley’s eyes, and Crowley gazed at him, waiting for a signal, a sign, a word – anything, anything that would tell him if he was out of line, or was being invited in...

After a number of seconds, wavering in his indecision, Zira inched forward... and forward... His lip plucked free, plump and lush and pink...

Crowley’s heart began to slam his ribs, breath coming short.

Closer... closer...

At the last moment Zira shut his eyes and tilted his head and they _kissed_. Crowley’s eyes shut, his eyebrows rose, his body tensed—

Oh... that felt nice. Very nice.

They broke apart, breath hot on their lips.

Crowley smiled helplessly.

They looked at each other. And after a beat of wonder, then another of hesitation, they fell softly into another kiss, Crowley’s hand on Zira’s cheek, Zira’s hand on Crowley’s chest, sliding up to his neck... Their lips pressed for a moment or two longer than before, then smacked apart, both of them flushed with excitement.

“Oh, we shouldn’t,” Zira whispered, eyes closed. “This is so wrong, Crowley, we shouldn’t...”

Crowley shook his head. Then nodded. He licked his lips and looked away. He knew Zira was right. Not only were they unmarried, which made kissing wholly inappropriate, but they also both looked like men at present, making even the _suggestion_ of romance reprehensible in the mind of anyone who saw – and worst of all, they were supposed to be _enemies_...

This wasn’t a game like last time. They weren’t being made to kiss by four insistent children. There was no excuse for this. Just because it felt nice wasn’t a good reason to do it. Just because it made Crowley’s heart soar wasn’t a reason. Just because they both _wanted_ to...

No.

Crowley gulped hard. Zira slid himself from the tree to the ground, landing in snow, one boot on his fallen gloves. He bent to lift the gloves to his pockets, breathing out slowly. He seemed regretful. Sullen, almost.

“Perhaps,” Zira said – and Crowley flared with hope; maybe they _could_ touch, maybe they could kiss in private, when nobody was watching, where nobody would see – “we ought to go home now. The cold’s making your leg worse. Long ride back, if we have to go slow.”

Disappointment plunged through Crowley’s body. He nodded.

He tried to push out of the tree, but discomfort in his leg urged him to stop. He tried again, only to grunt and wince in pain.

Zira noticed. He offered both bare hands, and Crowley took them, struggling, but finding it easier to get down with Zira’s assistance. He slid from the branch and down Zira’s front, sharing breath on the way. Crowley’s boots touched snow, hands still clutched in Zira’s, lips only an inch away...

They didn’t think about it, it just happened. Their lips were soft together, their bodies pressed without a space between them, thighs interlocked. Zira’s hands slid up Crowley’s back to sink into his tied-back hair; Crowley’s hands hugged the back of Zira’s head, pulling him in as they mouthed against each other, lips smacking wet, tiny gasps taken between kisses. They breathed against each other, smooching and nosing and turning their heads the other way—

“Mm,” Crowley sighed, smiling, letting Zira take six kisses at once, enjoying his insistence. “Mmmh...”

“Oh, Crowley,” Zira whispered, turning his head again, going in for more kisses. “Hm...”

They stood, kissing and kissing, wrapped up in each other, stroking hair, thumbing behind ears, hugging the backs of necks, then cuddling waists. Their cold noses pressed and nuzzled, both of them _trying_ to pull away, but it was too hard... It felt too nice... Zira had overheated inside, and all his resistant thoughts had melted to fluff. Crowley had gotten lost in the light, and gorged on it, as he’d only just found out what goodness tasted like and he’d never tasted anything better. Zira touched him not only with his hands, and body, and lips, but with wisps of broken words and a heart full of care. Crowley didn’t know if he’d be allowed this again, so dared not stop yet.

One last kiss. One more. Bouncing lips, trying to depart, but nudging back for another, another—

Despite the pain it caused, Crowley was the first to duck away, hands empty, lips sore and licked wet. He breathed out a thick cloud, wiping his lips with two knuckles, trying not to look at Zira.

God, he was scared of what they’d just done. But he had no regrets, either.

They pulled themselves together, tidying their clothes, clearing their throats, then making their reluctant way to their horses. Crowley needed help getting into Ophelia’s saddle, Zira’s hands pushing on his buttocks, but they managed it with a shared chuckle.

“Any chance you could take us home at a walk?” Crowley asked Ophelia. “Please. My leg hurts.”

Whether or not Ophelia understood his words was questionable, but it seemed she understood the plan instinctively, because she set off the way they’d come at a reasonable pace, plodding back past the fountain, then the frozen pond, moving slowly enough that Crowley got several minutes to admire how the light glittered on the surface. Ophelia was probably just tired, and expected a bucket of oats and a drink at home. But Zira happily suggested that she and Crowley had made friends, and once bound under these circumstances, Ophelia would someday come to Crowley’s aid in a time of need.

“You read too many stories, angel,” Crowley said, as they went along.

Zira and Nellie kept pace behind. Zira replied, sure of his words: “You don’t read enough.”

The walk back took several hours, somehow. They got a bit lost around all the fields, unsure whether to go back the chaotic way they’d come, or the way Zira remembered. But neither was any good, so they sat on a tree stump and ate their sandwiches.

It was only once they journeyed on, and found the path that led back to the Device Estate that they even dared talk about what had happened back there in the garden.

Zira was the one who brought it up. He rode side-by-side with Crowley, fiddling with the trailing white lace that peeked from his coat sleeves as he uttered, “Crowley, you know we can’t, don’t you.” He met Crowley’s eyes, solemn and sorry. “We can’t... _do_... this. Be this way.” He swallowed and looked forward. “Not together.” Quietly, with a sigh, “...Not you and me.”

For a moment, Crowley’s chest ached twice as much as his thigh. “I know, angel,” he replied. A whisper: “Believe me, I know.”

But they were doing it anyway. They _would be_ this way. They were together.

It was simply too late. There was no escaping love.

  


**♔**

  



	14. Good Company

They got back to the Device Estate exhausted and wet. They absconded to Zira’s room for privacy, pulling off their clothes and kicking socks at each other – laughing again, if tiredly – then huddling shoulder-to-shoulder in their vests and breeches, warming their hands by the fire.

Crowley left Zira for a moment, going to the bed. He returned with Zira’s tartan blanket, and draped it over Zira’s shoulders. “Oh,” Zira beamed as he hugged the blanket close. “Thank you.”

Crowley smiled, adoration agleam in his eyes.

A knock came at the bedroom door, and Zira hurriedly wrapped the blanket tighter, covering his skin and underwear. Crowley did nothing. Zira called, “Come in?”

Cook Li Na entered with a tray of food, curtseying once. “Your meal, Sir Zira.”

“Gosh, that was quick,” Zira said. “Thank you very much, Cook. Just in the usual place, please.”

Cook set the tray on the ornate wooden side table beside the door. Her back was to them for a moment, then she turned, asking, “Will there be any dessert with that, Sir Zira?”

“That would be delightful, thank you, Cook,” Zira smiled. “Ah, might I have some of the sticky date pudding? I trust there’s some left over.”

“Of course, Sir Zira.”

“Not for me,” Crowley said, before the Cook could leave. “I’ll have... anything else. Something light. Fruit salad.”

Cook nodded, and left.

Crowley went to sit on the squat-legged ottoman, five feet back from the fire, pretending, as he always did, that he didn’t mind that all three of the house staff either refused to acknowledge him or did not curtsey, and rarely addressed him by name.

Zira had gone to fetch the tray, and now brought it to Crowley, sitting beside him, his weight sinking into the plush red velvet top of the ottoman. “One for you,” Zira said, handing Crowley his bowl of hot, chunky soup. “And one for me.”

They ate somewhat lazily, Zira’s legs stretched out, Crowley sitting cross-legged, one elbow propped on his good thigh. He still ached, and shifted every so often to find a position that hurt less.

He tipped back his soup and smacked his lips, then set aside the half-empty bowl on the tray on the floor. He leaned back, weight on his hands, and waited, watching, as Zira scooped up the last of his own dinner.

Zira frowned at Crowley’s bowl when he put down his own. “You’re not going to finish?”

“Hm? Oh.” Crowley picked up his bowl again. He lifted a boiled potato in his spoon, then lowered it again. “Not that hungry.”

“You can’t let it go to waste,” Zira complained, leaning closer. “Cook’ll throw it out if you don’t finish.”

Crowley turned the spoon towards Zira. “Do you want it?”

Zira was about to say no, he was saving room for dessert, but then registered that Crowley was offering to feed him. So he murmured, “Maybe just a little...”

He edged closer, lips parting. Crowley smiled as he set the spoon to Zira’s mouth and tipped in a bite.

Zira squeaked, hand to his chin as a drip escaped. He laughed with his mouth shut, folding forward – he shot Crowley a despairing look, while Crowley grinned at him. Zira chewed, and swallowed, and sat up. He drew a deep breath, then leaned close, and let Crowley feed him again.

For a while it was a quiet, intimate exercise. They made eye contact a few times, and both smiled, hearts alight with gratification. Neither needed to say it: this had been a long time coming. After all the care Zira had lavished upon Crowley, it had never occurred to him that Crowley owed him anything. Whether or not Crowley thought he was indebted, the debt was paid here, now, with this gesture.

They didn’t finish the soup, as Zira patted down a hand to say he’d had his fill, and Crowley set the bowl aside.

Zira hummed in contentment, rubbing his stomach. Crowley just smiled, rocking his side against Zira’s. Zira caught his eye, and they grinned.

Inevitably, Zira’s eyes fell to Crowley’s lips.

Crowley only hesitated once. Ignoring his fear, he leaned in—

Cook knocked at the door, and Zira sat bolt-upright, shoving Crowley away. Crowley toppled off the ottoman with a yelp – Zira heard a thump and saw his bare legs sticking up.

“Oh, darling, I’m so sorry—” Zira turned to the door, called, “Come in!” then leaned to the other end of the ottoman, helping Crowley up. He tried to look apologetic, but laughed, and Crowley tried to look annoyed, but grinned, and they sat together, chortling, shoving each other, tickling – then remembering they had company, and trying to calm down, still twitching at the lips and shaking at the shoulders.

“I’ll just put it here,” Cook Li Na said, glancing at Sir Zira and the traitor, then averting her eyes. “Sticky date pudding, and a fruit salad.”

“Very good, thank youhoohoo— Crowleyyy, I’m not even tickl-_eek_! St-heeheeheeheee—”

Li Na faced the table, placing down the tray. The Baronet and the Black Knight were busy, the door was shut, her back was turned – nobody would see. From her apron pocket she pulled a tiny cork-stoppered vial of hemlock, mixed in with cinnamon seasoning. She’d been waiting for a moment in the day when Sir Zira and Crowley ordered different meals, so there was no chance of accidentally poisoning Sir Zira. Finally. She hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

She worked to uncork the bottle, feeling adrenaline coursing through her, her heartbeat bruising her insides. The colours in the fruit salad seemed especially bright. One tip of her hand over the pineapple and Crowley would be dead at first bite. She planned to claim she left the bowl unattended for a moment in the kitchen, only a _moment_—

Upon hearing a quacking kind of laughter, she turned over her shoulder and saw Sir Zira with his hands on Crowley’s middle, scrunching up his vest to touch his skin. Li Na’s bones chilled – she’d seen them grow closer but she hadn’t realised they were _this_ close. Crowley gasped Zira’s name, called him ‘angel’, begged for mercy but squirmed for more. Zira was held rapt by the sight of him, uttering unheard words, head bowed to grin against Crowley’s bare shoulder as the strap of his vest fell down.

Then Crowley’s foot spasmed – he gasped; Zira yelped, “Careful!”

They stopped touching. Zira reached for the bowl Crowley had kicked. “No spills, luckily. Dear, there’s still some left, are you sure you won’t finish?”

“Roast beef sandwich was filling,” Crowley shrugged. “Best sandwich I ever ate, probably.”

“Well, I’m not letting good food get thrown out,” Zira said. He picked up Crowley’s spoon and sipped up the last bits of the soup.

Li Na’s resolve shattered in that moment. They were sharing food. How long had they been sharing food? If she’d gone ahead with her plan she might’ve killed them both. And even if she had succeeded in assassinating the enemy and nobody else... It was obvious Sir Zira would be left distraught. Li Na had never seen more intimate male friends. She liked Zira. She couldn’t do that to him.

She turned away and capped the hemlock, waves of ice rolling off her shoulders. She pocketed the poison, turned to her masters, and curtseyed. “Sir? The seasoning for the fruit wasn’t mixed right, I’ll have to take it back to the kitchen.”

“Oh, don’t bother with seasoning,” Crowley said with a small smile. “Plain’s fine.”

Li Na bowed her head. Then she hesitated, and said, “I’m glad you enjoyed the sandwich I made you, Sir Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyebrows nearly hit his widow’s peak. “Oh.” His lower lip wobbled as he searched for words. “I’m... glad... you... made it?”

Cook Li Na smiled. She curtseyed, and left, shoulders slumping in relief.

As adverse to the Black Knights as she was, she’d never wanted to be part of the war. Like most of the people in the country – like Lady Anathema, like Sir Zira, like all the staff here, the people in the town, and the farmers over the hills – she’d remained on the sidelines, reading about the battles and attacks in the newspapers, hearing stories enfolded within gossip brought up from bigger cities. She didn’t want to fight. She didn’t want to kill anyone. She just wanted to feel safe.

For the first time now, she wondered if Crowley was here because he felt exactly the same.

  


**♔**

  


Crowley tossed pineapple into his mouth, chewing it, then flicking his tongue out a few times when it started to sting. He reached for Zira’s bowl and stole his spoon out of his hand, taking some date pudding to soothe his mouth.

“If I’d known you wanted some, I would’ve asked,” Zira said, taking back his spoon.

“Tastes better when it’s yours,” Crowley murmured, scratching at his stubble. He yawned, then scrunched up his face in pain, running his palms down his thighs. “Hhhng.”

“Look, I’m not having this nonsense, Crowley. Ask Winnie to run you a bath! I’m telling you, it’s only going to get worse unless you do something about it.”

Crowley groaned, lying himself down on the ottoman, placing his head on Zira’s lap. “Pet me,” he said.

Zira smiled, rolling his eyes away as he sighed. He put his pudding aside, sinking his fingers down to Crowley’s slightly greasy scalp. “Do you have a good time today, at least?”

“The best,” Crowley smiled, eyes falling shut. He exhaled, relaxing completely as Zira began to massage his head. “Hmmmm.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Zira said. “You take a hot bath. And I— I’ll, um. I’ll rub ointment on your leg for you. Before bed.”

Crowley turned to lie on his back, peering up at Zira. “You haven’t done that in weeks.”

“Haven’t needed to.”

“You— You’d really do that? Even though...” He shrugged.

Even though Crowley was starting to feel aroused whenever Zira touched him there.

Zira gulped. He caressed Crowley’s face, gazing down at him with a honey-sweet glow pulsating in his chest. “I... I suppose I couldn’t pet a squirrel... without first _trying_ to pet a squirrel...”

Crowley smirked. “Is that how we’re going to talk about this? Squirrels?”

Zira hung his head, eyes averting from Crowley’s. “We can’t talk about such personal things openly, you know that. We shouldn’t be talking about it at _all_. For God’s sake, Crowley, we shouldn’t even be _thinking_ about it!”

Crowley sighed sadly. Their eyes met again.

Slowly, Crowley’s hand lifted, caressing Zira’s jaw with the back, the way he had the minute they met. Everything was different now, just as Crowley had prayed it would be. Nothing had come true the _way_ he wished for, but each wish had, in fact, come true. With sunglasses, his yellow eyes were no longer the first thing strangers saw. He’d been given the space to explore various physical presentations, and though he was not now magically female, he could look like a woman sometimes. And, even within two days, he’d kissed Zira more times than he ever thought possible. But the world around them was the same, and like those children had said, tending to the concept of change was very different to actively making changes. The world wouldn’t accept what Crowley and Zira had, not unless they were forced to.

And so Crowley prayed, now, holding Zira’s cheek as his angel folded down to his lap for a kiss. He prayed there’d be some way they could be safe together.

“Angel,” Crowley breathed, a whisper between Zira’s parted lips. “Don’t you wish—”

Someone knocked on the bedroom door. Crowley roared with a sigh, throwing up his hands and pushing himself upright, just as Zira gathered his blanket close and invited the newcomer in.

It was Lady Anathema, this time unsurprised to find them undressed together. “Hi,” she smiled. “I know you’re probably tired, but we’re putting up Christmas decorations downstairs – either of you wanna join in?”

Zira immediately looked delighted. “Oh, yes!” He looked to Crowley, but tutted. “Not _you_, though. You’re having a bath. Remember our deal?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Crowley uttered, rolling his eyes as he got unsteadily to his feet. But he smiled, shooting Zira a soft look. He snatched up Zira’s leftover pudding, and stuffed it into his mouth, bulging one cheek. “Hey,” he said, “you shoulb pell Anfema about your deal with squirrels. Bep that’ll make her laugh.”

He winked, then half-limped, half-sauntered off, leaving Zira in a babbling, flustered state, holding an empty pudding bowl, assuring a very confused Anathema that his relationship with squirrels was limited to an occasional aversion to small woodland creatures with sharp teeth – and nothing else, definitely, why would it be about anything else?!

Crowley shut the door behind him, and tittered to himself all the way down the hall.

  


**♔**

  


Crowley had grown up washing with lukewarm water. His family didn’t have big fireplaces, or a bathtub, or a bathroom – they had a cooking pot hung over an outdoor fire, a bowl and a jug, and a cloth draped for privacy in one corner of the room he and his parents all lived in.

The Knights had bathrooms and baths, at least, but Crowley was expected to heat his own water, and much of the time, frankly, he couldn’t be bothered. He convinced himself he liked the cold. After thirty years he’d forgotten how comforting hot water could be.

The first hot, waist-deep bath of his life had been the one Zira gave him.

As satisfying as it all was having servants run around doing Crowley’s bidding, he enjoyed it less and less as his body healed. Now he could walk, he didn’t see a reason to let other people do tasks he’d done himself all his life.

He tried to take the bucket from Winnie halfway up the stairs, but she said, “Oh, no, sir, I can do it—” and refused to let go of the handle or give Crowley the protective cloth between her palm and the metal.

Crowley followed Bertha, pleading, “I just needed the hot water, you really don’t have to— Are you sure I can’t—”

The bath was halfway full before Winnie entered the bathroom, stuck out a bucket, and said, “You can pour this one in, sir. If you like.”

Crowley perked up, unfolding himself from the wicker chair he’d been perched on. He touched the bucket – hot but not scalding – and took it, gleeful as he let the whole lot waterfall into the bathtub with an almighty sloshing.

“Better, sir?”

Crowley grinned. “Thanks.”

He sat again, waiting for Bertha to come up with the next bucket. His mind quickly returned to the daydreams which had swirled around in his head as the sun had gone down. The bathroom window had painted over with navy, now black, dancing with the golden flicker of a reflected five-pronged candelabra.

Over and over and over again, he relived the sensual experience of having Zira pressed to him, seeing his smile, tasting the sweetness of sultanas on his breath. Crowley felt hands on his waist still, only noticing where Zira had touched him hours after the fact – and he felt those places throbbing now, as if Zira had pulled a pulse to Crowley’s surface, like fish curious about the sun. Crowley’s heart still skipped a beat as he considered what they’d _done_, what they’d talked about in metaphor, what they planned to do later. Fingertips played along his smile, his imagination adrift in memory.

Bertha eventually came with the final bucket, and she closed the door behind her. Crowley stood to take the bucket, thanking her, turning to pour the water in. He set down the bucket and knelt at the bath’s edge, swirling a hand through the water, watching candlelight ripple on its top.

Behind Crowley’s turned back, Bertha double-checked the door was closed. She turned the heavy black key in its lock, coughing to cover the click. She let out a slow, silent breath, steeling her nerves. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the weapon she’d made. Butcher’s twine, the sort Cook was currently using to tie up the stuffed ham – just over a foot long, each end wound around wooden clothes pegs so the twine wouldn’t cut Bertha’s hands once she hooked it around Crowley’s neck and began to pull. There it was, his neck. Long and pale and halfway hidden behind windswept red hair. There was a black ribbon tying it back. Bertha crept up close, ready... She had to be quick—

“Bertha,” Crowley said conversationally, setting an elbow on the ceramic rim of the bath, scrunching at his hair, “have you ever been in love?”

Bertha stopped in her tracks. “What?”

Crowley shrugged, sending one of his vest straps loose down one shoulder. “Love. Romantic love. Wanting to court someone. Make them laugh. Kiss them. Touch them. To get to know them... maybe in the Biblical sense.” He began swirling a fingertip through the water.

Bertha averted her eyes. “Cert’nly I ‘ave, sir,” she said.

Crowley looked back just as Bertha hid the garrotte in her pocket. “Who?”

Bertha’s eyes flooded as she answered, “Me fiancé, sir. Lenny, sir.”

Crowley turned away from the bath, resting his neck against it, his buttocks in linen breeches pressed on the slate-tile floor. He looked up at the servant, seeing her albino skin shaded gold in the candlelight, brown eyes swimming in tears.

“Why does saying his name upset you?” Crowley asked, frowning a little.

“B’cause, sir,” Bertha’s voice turned hard with hatred, “he was killed by them Black Knights. He joined the Resistance, an’ got ‘imself stabbed within a bloody week. Me mam even liked ‘im, an’ she din’t like no-one. Was only two months to go ‘til our weddin’.”

Crowley leaned his head back further against the bath, hands held together over his bent knees. His jaw flickered, anger in his yellow eyes. Then he let go of a breath, and said, thickly, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that happened to you, Bertha. And I’m sorry about Lenny.”

“Me too, sir,” Bertha said. Her fist closed around the clothes pegs, prepared to pull them out as soon as Crowley turned away.

But Crowley’s expression of mourning didn’t contort into anything else; he remained sullen for a while, staring at the empty chair by the bath. He took a breath. “That must be unbearable,” he uttered, shaking his head. “How do you _live_ with that? That loss?” He looked up at Bertha almost in reverence, unmistakable despair pulling lines under his eyes. “How do you go on _breathing_ after losing someone like that?”

Bertha reminded himself he was a liar; he was only pretending to care.

“I near didn’t,” Bertha said coolly. She looked down at her enemy and thought, fine, if he wanted to show empathy, then she wanted him to suffer with it. “Me mam told me to go on livin’. So I made ‘er that promise. If I ‘adn’t, I’d’ve been gone from this world the day I ‘eard about Lenny. An’ I’m keepin’ me promise still, even after I lost me mam as well.”

Crowley hugged himself, hands under his arms, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I lost my parents too. A long time ago.”

Bertha heard a true ache in his voice. That was no lie.

“I don’t know,” Crowley sighed, bowing his head, palming at an eye as if brushing away an unshed tear. “Your fiancé. Lenny...” He sniffed, working his lips into a kiss to keep from letting his emotion show. “If I lost Zira like th— Someone. Losing _anyone_ like that would be... _torturous_, beyond anything I can even imagine.”

He looked away quickly, a wet breath escaping his parted lips. “You’re brave. Braver than I was.” He forced up a smile, but it was ruined by sadness. “I mean it. You’re... incredible, Bertha. You didn’t deserve what happened to you, everything you’ve fought through in the name of this stupid war. I don’t think anyone deserves that.” He gulped.

Then the softest whisper fell from his lips: “If... If he was gone... I don’t know how I’d find the will to live. Frankly, I don’t think I would.”

Bertha slowly sank to kneel before her enemy, watching his tears fall in silence.

Her hand left her pocket and lay, empty, with the other on her black skirt.

“You would,” Bertha said.

Crowley met Bertha’s eyes, and a tear fell from each of them.

Bertha looked away and stood up. She said nothing. She went to the door, unlocked it, and left.

  


**♔**

  


Crowley had planned to spend his bathtime surrendering to his fantasies about Zira, letting go of guilt, and letting himself _feel_ love, and allowing it to overcome his mind, his body, letting the heat of the water cradle every inch of him as he imagined it was Zira.

Instead he spent it on the verge of tears, every ten seconds having to force away a dark thought, keeping his eyes away from the window so he wasn’t tempted to open it and see how far it was to the ground; eyes away from the candle so he didn’t think about how much it would burn; eyes away from the water so he wasn’t tempted to lie down and breathe in.

That brief exchange with Bertha had destroyed him. Every guilty shadow inside him had risen up, obscuring the light he’d just started to get used to.

By the end of his bath he was clean, and his leg ached less, but he was emotionally exhausted. He could’ve slept for a century.

He couldn’t be alone tonight, he knew that much. He didn’t _want_ to die. But some frantic little beast inside him wanted everything over with, wanted to remove him and his mistakes from the situation so nobody else had to deal with him, maybe proving he was really sorry for ever becoming a Knight – and so he didn’t have to deal with himself or any of his many flaws. But that beast was wrong. He knew it was wrong. Zira wanted him. Zira loved him. Zira had cared for him, in _spite_ of the reason Crowley had needed care. He trusted Crowley not to need the same care again. Bertha had promised her mother she wouldn’t leave this world prematurely. And Crowley didn’t need to promise aloud, but he’d promised. Every day he fought to stay alive, he’d promised. Promised Zira. And promised himself. He wasn’t about to throw his second chance away.

Crowley didn’t knock before entering Zira’s bedroom. He went in slumped, closed the door with his head down, hand pushing damp hair out of his face.

“Oh, hello,” Zira said. He was sitting at a bureau near the window, curtains closed behind it to keep out the night draft. “Do you want me to put your ointment on now?”

Crowley waved a hand. “Finish what you’re doing first. I’mma... just...”

He got into Zira’s bed and bundled himself under the blankets. The pillow smelled like marzipan. Crowley breathed deeply, then relaxed.

He listened to the inky whisper-scratch and the papery whoosh and the soft breaths of Zira writing in his journal. The fire popped and crackled. And Crowley breathed slow, hearing his own breath against the pillow, until he didn’t hear anything at all.

  


**♔**

  


It was dark when Crowley woke up. He didn’t know where he was, but he smelled a familiar scent, and remembered. He lay back, relaxing, stretching an arm out to touch Zira.

But the other side of the bed was empty.

“Hh’Zira?” Crowley blinked and blinked but it was still dark. “You here?”

He patted around, then sat up. The fire had burned down and was just embers in the grate, one log glowing blood-orange. Crowley set a foot on the rug, pacing to the floorboards, then to the door. He opened the door, feeling a stark rush of cold air from the hallway. His hair was slightly damp still, warm near his face.

“Zira?” Crowley whispered.

He left his room and looked around. Moonlight picked out only the pattern on the hallway runner, not the colours. The walkway was a deep blue, but lighter were Crowley’s bare feet as he crept from one door to the next.

He entered his own bedroom. The fire was still burning in here, just about.

The wavering flush of orange was enough to let Crowley see the shape in his own bed, light hair and pretty lips, a frilly nightgown twisted upon Zira’s chest. Crowley smiled, and shut the door behind himself silently.

He set a knee on his bed and climbed in.

It was cold between the sheets, but he burrowed closer to the warmth, a hand on Zira’s ribs, one foot sliding to touch a warmer pair.

Zira stirred. A frown pinched between his brows. “You’re here,” he said, confused.

“Thought you would join me,” Crowley mumbled, voice still thick with sleep.

Zira swallowed, allowing Crowley closer, laying one arm over his bicep, moving into an embrace. “I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted,” Zira admitted. “I didn’t want to wake you. Not even for ointment. I thought perhaps you’d just come to my room for company while you fell asleep.”

Crowley nodded, snuggling right up to Zira’s front, forehead against his throat. “Don’t want to be alone. Hm... ‘s... really... hard, to be alone. All my thoughts... just...”

Zira heard the vocal strain in that confession. He began stroking through Crowley’s hair. “Do you need me to do something?” Zira whispered in concern. “Anything.”

Crowley’s only response was to squirm ever-closer into Zira’s personal space, comforted by the searing heat of his legs and the softness of his middle.

Crowley shut his eyes and kissed Zira’s lips, too softly, too lovingly.

Zira kissed back, once, twice – then he broke away with a breath, whispering, “My dear, I know you’re frightened, but we shouldn’t...” His breath caught. “We really sh...” He resisted for only a handful of moments, then held Crowley close, cuddling him.

They kissed again. And again. Smooching, smacking, nudging... Their hands met, curling together under the blankets, fingers spread and interlocked.

At last, Crowley pressed his forehead to Zira’s shoulder, and breathed out, ready to sleep.

Zira put one last kiss on Crowley’s temple. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”

“Sweet dreams, angel.”

  


**♔**

  


Wilhelmina Winifred Smithers had never held a dagger before. She’d held kitchen knives, and a butcher’s knife, and letter-openers, but this was unlike anything she’d grapsed before. The hilt was as girthy as her grip, wrapped in a leather strap. The crossbar dividing hilt from blade was twisted metal, and the blade was as sharp a silver as the first haze of dawn, the absolute faintest light ghosting through the hallway windows.

Where Mr. Wignall got ahold of a Black Knight’s dagger, Winnie didn’t care to ask. She’d heard there were scary people who frequented the public houses in town, and if Cook could get hemlock there, and Bertha could learn how to arm-wrestle, a dagger seemed an easy acquisition.

Winnie paused outside Sir Crowley’s room, trying to calm her thumping heart. She needed to hear every sound, footsteps, breath; it was hard to hear anything over the gushing of blood in her ears.

Stealing a look left, then right, Winnie determined everyone was still asleep, and, with her thick lip bitten steady, she turned the handle to Crowley’s room.

Hand tense on the handle, she stepped in, unwound the handle in silence, then pushed the door to rest closed.

She controlled her breath, stepping past the dead fire and up to the four-poster bed. First light traced an outline around the curtains’ edges, and a washed-out blue gave enough luminance to the room that she could make out the shape of Crowley, curled under the blankets.

She’d just have to lower the knife, Wignall had said. Some force was required to get it through blankets. Winnie knew she had brutal strength within her; she’d fought off men a dozen times by now, and had won every time. Just because she was thin didn’t mean there wasn’t meat on her. She could slam the dagger down into this shadow here, and that would be the end of the Black Knight, for good.

Crowley squirmed in the bed, breathing out, stretching his legs. “Hmm,” he purred, head twisting, hair hissing on the pillow as it moved.

Winnie stood frozen as Crowley seemed to wake – but he smacked his lips, and turned at the hip, then the rest of him followed. He nuzzled forward. One arm moved, the blanket dragged down with it—

Lightning shock chilled Winnie’s entire body. Crowley was not alone in his bed.

Baronet Zira had his arms around Crowley’s waist, their faces together, their bodies entwined. They were sleeping comfortably. Winnie had never seen two people so close, so _intimate_. Only her parents shared a bed...

She kept the dagger from dropping to the rug in her shock. She gripped it twice as hard now, unsure whether to plunge the weapon into Crowley’s exposed back, or to retreat. This wasn’t the plan. Sir Zira wasn’t meant to be here.

Were they... lovers?

Winnie couldn’t do it. Not with Zira here.

She left as quietly as she’d come in.

As a member of the gentry, Sir Zira was one of about three hundred major players in the war; Winnie had heard he had his army out on loan to Duke Gabriel. Zira had been pouring unlimited funds and written support and pledging his public loyalty to the Resistance for decades. In so many ways, he _was_ the Resistance. No, he didn’t fight on the front line, but he was the face of _good_ in this world; he stood behind the Prince Regent and his country as a leading example to those who ranked below him.

So what did it mean, now, that he shared a bed with the enemy, in such a literal sense? Was Crowley good, was Zira bad? Or... were both neither?

Zira was too considerate to be a traitor. He’d brought the enemy here only to show him endless kindness – kindness that Winnie had witnessed first-hand. Zira was kind to her. He was kind to the other servants. Nobody so full of care and empathy could intentionally hurt people like the Black Knights did.

Winnie stood in the rising light of dawn, her black silhouette hazed at the edges. Through the long windows before her, the view of the snowy hills turned peach on the horizon. She looked at the dagger in her hand. It was shaped like the tattoo on Crowley’s face: the miniature sword of a Black Knight.

She gasped, and dropped the knife. It thunked through the rug and stuck in the floorboards, slowly leaning until it fell flat.

How could she kill a man, a man in _love_ with goodness incarnate, a man who’d repented for his sins and found peace at last, after everything he’d escaped from? Was that not even crueller than what the Knights did, when they fought against Resistance pawns who’d _volunteered_ to fight, who _wanted_ to cause them harm?

If anyone else in the world had seen what Winnie had just seen, a love-smitten survivor and a soft-hearted bibliophile believing they were safe in each other’s arms, unaware of a frightened girl holding her enemy’s sword with intent to kill and blame the other side for her deed, even a stranger would have questioned how this had come to be.

Wilhelmina Winifred Smithers realised now how this war had begun. She realised why it continued. And she realised how it had to end.

  


**♔**

  



	15. Tentative Relations (and Shadwell’s Damnations)

Crowley looked so peaceful while he slept. In waking moments he believed that whatever he’d done, whatever mistakes he’d made, they had rendered his soul unforgivable. But Zira knew better. God forgave all, he truly believed that. Crowley was shown small mercies even now, his sleep empty of pain or worry. He simply slumbered.

Many of the Christmas Eves in Zira’s life had been lonely ones. Before he met Anathema he’d never had friends he counted as family. He remembered cold, blank days, watching other people smile, watching them light candles and exchange gifts, while Zira was apart from them, determined to be content by himself in his bookshop.

But today, this morning...?

A stripe of pure gold sliced neatly between the gaps in the curtains and the bed, and the ambient light gave the bedroom a pleasant glow. The fire had died long ago but the heat lingered in the walls and furnishings, just enough to keep the air from feeling cold. Whether the smell of breakfast had crept under the door, or something magical rose from Crowley’s sleeping form, to Zira, the air in here smelled like sunshine and hope.

Zira smiled, first at the drapery over the bed, then at Crowley. He began to stretch, elongating in the bed and trembling as his hands hit the headboard and his toes poked off the end of the mattress. He drew the deepest breath, then rolled close to his friend and gave him a kiss on the nose.

Crowley scrunched his nose. “Nn.”

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Zira uttered, stroking back Crowley’s messy hair. “I don’t know what time it is but I think Winnie let us sleep in. The sun’s all the way up.”

Crowley groaned, nudging his nose into the pillow.

Zira wondered whether to ask how he was feeling. Crowley had come here last night in a bit of a state – he’d barely explained the situation but it had been clear just by his actions: he’d felt uncomfortably vulnerable. Something had upset him. A good rest had likely remedied the issue, but still, Zira doubted his inclination to ask. Maybe Crowley had forgotten his worries. Maybe he wanted today to begin anew without the shadows from last night. Zira decided not to remind him.

He gave Crowley’s cheek a kiss, and smiled when Crowley smiled.

“How’s your leg?” Zira asked.

Crowley hummed, rolling and stretching in the bed, tensing and relaxing. “Dull aches everywhere. Mmm butt’cks hurt.”

Zira nodded, cuddling up to him. “Sometimes I wonder if we’d all be better off riding unsaddled.”

Crowley stroked through Zira’s hair with his slim fingers, slowly working up to opening his eyes. They gazed at each other for a while, adjusting themselves in the bed so they shared a pillow and their noses were almost touching.

Zira gave Crowley a few slow, tender kisses, pursing his lips to reach.

Then Zira huffed out a laugh – Crowley had placed two chilly hands on his middle.

“How are your hands cold _now_?” Zira asked, admonished, as Crowley wriggled closer and warmed his palms against Zira’s waist. Warningly, Zira said, “If you’re going to try and tickle me—”

“Aw, wouldn’t dream of it,” Crowley mumbled innocently, lips pert. Zira kissed him. “Mmbut,” Crowley added, kiss, kiss, “if you wanted...?”

Zira brightened. “Hm?”

Crowley bit his lip and rolled over onto his front, looking at Zira invitingly.

With a burst of delight, Zira set both hands on Crowley and began to squiggle his fingers, gratified when Crowley immediately curled up, screeching – he shook with laughter and folded in two, Zira’s hands tucked between his belly and thighs.

“Got you!” Zira cried, wrapping himself over Crowley’s back. He wiggle-wiggle-wiggled his trapped hands, making Crowley squeeze him tighter, squealing.

Zira put kisses on Crowley’s back, as Crowley writhed under him, gasping in pleasure, then giggling, spreading his legs and then tensing again.

“Zihh— Zirahh! Heeheehee—”

They rolled over so they were face-to-face, shoving and kicking and slapping playfully at each other. In a frantic rush to get the upper hand, Crowley straddled Zira’s waist and threatened to tickle – he never actually did it, but even the threat made Zira spasm anyway, hugging himself as he giggled himself dizzy.

Crowley was paid back moments later with Zira’s hands on his waist, and he gasped, mouth wide and smiling, eyes shut. He surged on Zira’s lap and then fell away, crawling off, pushed onto his back and _besieged_ with fast-moving hands, fast enough that he couldn’t bat them away; he gasped and sobbed and guffawed, kicking at blankets and scrunching white sheets in fists.

“Zira! Zir— Angehhh. Angel— Hmm. Mmm.” He sucked his lip, starting to blush. His legs were free of the blankets now, both Zira and Crowley lying diagonally with their heads near the foot of the bed. Zira kissed Crowley’s neck, tickling his middle, while Crowley shivered and gasped and rolled his head to the side, hair a mess around him. “Ziraa...”

Oh. That was it, wasn’t it? The moment it went from play to pleasure. Zira caught it this time. Panic seized him, but faded to excitement in a heartbeat. Perhaps he was a little curious about what Crowley was feeling...

Zira’s kisses slowed... his hands slowed. He let his touches linger, palm stroking Crowley’s navel...

Crowley’s breath shuddered, almost a laugh but not quite.

Zira lifted his head up, wanting to look.

Crowley’s lips were softly parted, the slits of his yellow eyes almost imperceptibly widened. He gazed at Zira calmly, though a hard gulp gave away his urgency.

Zira looked at his lips for a bit.

Then looked down to watch his own hand touch Crowley’s inner thigh, palm to his linen breeches. He stroked there a few times, then looked at Crowley again.

Crowley seemed worried. “Ah-Are you sure—”

Zira shook his head, relieved he asked. “No.” He kissed Crowley’s neck again, and let his hand leave Crowley’s thigh, back to his middle. “But I like that it feels... good, for you.”

Crowley hummed, easing his legs closed. “Feels nice.”

“Like what?”

“Hm... Lightning?” Crowley tried. He settled back, relaxing as Zira lay next to him, using his arm as a pillow. They snuggled, holding hands. “Hot lighting.” Crowley gaze Zira’s interested expression a quick look, then asked, softly, “You really never felt it?”

Zira shook his head. “I feel... warm, when we kiss, is that it? And I feel hot when you say something naughty, I like that too.”

“Sort of.” Crowley fingered a loose curl off Zira’s forehead, love in his eyes. “It’s like that but waaay more intense.”

“I wish I felt it...”

Crowley frowned, mystified. “Angel, it’s not a big deal. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What? Of course it does,” Zira argued. “Wh... We’re supposed to be feeling it together.”

Crowley started to grin. “What happened to ‘we shouldn’t even be thinking about it’?!”

Zira huffed, rolling his eyes. “I don’t really believe that, Crowley.”

“You don’t?”

Zira shrugged, rolling to look up at the sunbeam, watching the dust they’d stirred up sailing slow through the air. “Nobody has to know, do they? We could do whatever we like in private.” He tutted in annoyance. “But, for goodness’ sake, if only I wasn’t so _prudish_, we could both be enjoying this and you wouldn’t be left—”

“Whooooa. Angel, no, heyyy,” Crowley said urgently, inching closer, rolling on his side so he could hold Zira’s cheek, stroking his lips. “Look, angel, it’s _okay_. There’s no hurry. No obligation.” Crowley nearly chuckled, because it was nearly funny that Zira thought he was _supposed_ to feel aroused, but he didn’t chuckle, because it wasn’t funny at all. “Please just enjoy the moment. Because – ih-if-if I’m honest...? I don’t think _I_ even want more than this, what we’re doing here. All this... The tickliiiing, the kisseeees, the... the cuddling...? Angel, this feels right. Feels good. I _like_ this.” He sniffed in, snake eyes roaming as he amended, “Nah, scratch that.” He smiled softly, meeting Zira’s gaze. “I _love_ this.” His smile trembled at the corners of his lips, eyes glistening as he leaned in for an assuring smooch. He pulled away too soon, reiterating in a low, gentle voice, “I love _you_. ‘Kay?”

Zira’s smile was so delicate on his lips, in his eyes. He wasn’t sure whether to believe what he heard.

Crowley just shut his eyes and gave him another kiss, as he didn’t have anything else to say. He’d meant every word.

After giving one more squeeze to Zira, Crowley pushed himself up to sit, groaning as the room suddenly looked an ocean bigger than the private island of the bed. It was full of mid-morning sunshine and a vaguely smoky fog left over from the fire. Crowley ruffled a hand through his long hair, then asked, squinting, “Hey. Isn’t it Christmas Eve?”

Zira smiled, still gazing at Crowley from where he lay. He nodded.

  


**♔**

  


Something had changed between them since the day before, Anathema could tell.

She’d found them in their underwear having dinner in Zira’s room last night. The easy assumption was that Crowley had looked annoyed when Anathema looked in because she interrupted something private. That was what she’d believed all night, and had seen no reason to doubt it. It wasn’t like it was the first time it had happened.

True, she’d spent part of the evening with Zira, hanging tinsel along the picture rails of the living and dining rooms, and piling up leafy decorations on the mantlepieces – but beyond Anathema asking how their horse ride went, and Zira replying, “Hm? Oh. Yes. Good. Thank you,” they hadn’t mentioned Crowley even once. Perhaps that was strange, but they’d been busy, so it went unnoticed.

However, now, seeing them sitting side-by-side eating brunch, Anathema wondered if something had gone wrong. They weren’t even looking at each other. They moved their hands as if they were going to touch while reaching for the salt or the pepper, but one of them would snatch back, waiting until the condiments were free before reaching again. They didn’t say anything besides the occasional blunt declaration about the Christmas tree and the weather. Zira would say something like, “Oh yes! Quite,” or Crowley would hum in agreement, and then it was quiet for the duration of a slice of toast being eaten.

Anathema stared past the pile of Christmas cards she was busy opening, watching Zira especially intently. He was usually the one who showed the most emotion, but... he didn’t _seem_ upset. If they weren’t fighting, then maybe they were just tired from the horse ride...

Or tired from something else...?

Perhaps they’d been intimate in some new way and were afraid of letting their closeness show. Anathema searched them for any evidence of lovemaking, but saw none. She didn’t even know what to look for. It had to be different for two males.

Curious, she tried, “You two are quiet. Something on your minds?”

Okay, that got results. Crowley’s cheeks coloured, while Zira looked bothered.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” Zira said, sullenly. “No letters for me, that’s all. Must have gotten held up over Christmas...”

“Oh, you mean your invite to the Winter Ball?” Anathema smiled reassuringly. “It’ll be here, hon. There’s almost a month until the event. Plenty of time. Gabriel wouldn’t forget you, you’re still funding part of his army.”

Zira blinked at her. “Oh... Oh, that. Yes. The invitation. Yes, I’m sure it’ll be here.” He turned back to his food, even more bothered than before.

Anathema looked at Crowley. “And you?” She tilted her head teasingly. “What are you daydreaming about?”

Crowley blanked, eyes darting to Zira’s face, then down. “Hm, nothing,” he lied, blushing. “Just.” Shook his head. “How much I love wild, unpettable squirrels.”

A massive smile grew on Zira’s face. He shot Crowley a knowing look, and Crowley peered back. They both returned to their familiar fondness from then on, hands ‘accidentally’ touching on the table, sneaking morsels off each others’ plates, Zira complaining that Crowley was taking all the good toast, Crowley retorting that Zira was _letting_ him – and Anathema relaxed. No lovers’ spat to content with, thank God.

She beamed at them, then turned to admire the sun on the snow. The conservatory doors were open, and she could see right out through the arched windows.

Her smile fell as she saw a figure trudging through the snow out there, a trumpet-shaped weapon under one arm.

“Excuse me,” Anathema said, touching Zira’s arm as she got up. “Enjoy your food, I’ll be back in a bit.”

She fought to lace her boots, calling for Winnie to bring her coat – the moment Winnie handed it over, she wrapped it around her, ran to the door, trotted down the steps so fast she slipped at the bottom. She pushed herself from the snow with a hand, still moving forward. The figure was close to the gate now, and there was a horse waiting outside. She wouldn’t make it if she ran.

Veering left, Lady Anathema sprinted through the snow to the stables. She took Stanton, an unsaddled, unbridled grey stallion, and with a soft command of “Rápido, amigo!” and a squeeze of her thighs, she rode him at a canter down the driveway with her hands in his stiff mane, in a hurry to reach the gate before the shadow did.

She pulled up hard, steering the horse around in front of the gate, cutting off the intruder.

“You’re armed on my land without permission, Shadwell,” she said. “I could have your Witchfinder’s badge for that.”

“My Lady,” Shadwell said, tipping the brim of his felt hat. “Yer in a mood today, I see. Shan’t be tresspassin’ where ‘m not welcome. Was on my way out.”

“Aw, no, you are _welcome_ here, you know that,” Anathema said, more sweetly, putting her smile on strong. “But leave the old Thundergun at home next time, okay?”

Shadwell spluttered in indignation, standing to attention with the blaster over his shoulder. “Wi’h all due respect, m’Lady, all precautions must be taken when thar’s a beast aboot such as that yellow-eyed bastard ye described tae me. Been hearing tales down in the town these nights. Great southern monstaarrr’s up to nae good.”

Anathema was about to roll her eyes, but stopped herself. She dismounted, boots ankle-deep in the snow. “What kind of tales did you hear?”

“Nothin’ confarm’d yet, o’course, tha’s why I’m on patrol up here, but. Some folks hither and yonder’ve been passing along theories. Sayin’ – no offence tae ye, yer graciousness – bin sayin’ the beast’s here, at the Device Estate.”

Anathema sweetened her smile. “Any evidence?”

“Aye, aye, plenty,” Shadwell nodded, his red nose bobbing on his pale face. “Was just yesterday I saw two riders mad-chasin’ after some prey from _thus verry land_ as it fled with the power of invisa-billaty!”

“You saw... an invisible beast,” Anathema said.

“Well, I saw how those horses went after it. Maybe they were runnin’ _from_ it, there’s a thought. Either way. If it can turn invisible it’s nae _wonder_ it’s managed months without anyone seeing it proper.” He shrugged, adjusting his blaster. “Just’ between you and me, my Lady,” Shadwell leaned close, reeking of tobacco and gin, “I’mma comin’ up fast on the conclusion that the transmogrifyin’ Black Knight is _here_, on yer land, I know it.” Shadwell eyed the manor with heavy suspicion. “Aye. I’ll get my hands araend its neck sooner or later.”

Helplessly, Anathema’s smile became a little nervous. “But – you’ll check, right?” she asked. “You’ll check it’s a man-eating transmogrifying panther and not a decent human being before trying to kill it.”

“Nae time fer that, lass! If I come across any suspicious-lookin’ stranger he wouldn’ae even make it to the gate. Dinnae worry yerself, yer graciousness, I have the matter well in hand.” He aimed the Thundergun at a nearby bush, then set it at ease again.

“Right.” Anathema decided there was no talking the Witchfinder out of anything without raising even more suspicion. So she nodded, and got back on her horse. Crowley’s best chance of survival was to stay inside the house. No rides out. No walks. No dinner in the conservatory where anyone could see in. It wouldn’t be much of a life but at least he wouldn’t be blasted to mist by the Thundergun.

“Jus’ a word of advice for ye, my Lady,” Shadwell said, before Anathema could leave. There was something hard in his voice, unusual. “If ye are in any way hidin’ that beast, in or outta the house, then I’ll warn yeh now: it’s all over. For all’a you. Yerself and that southern pansy friend who hangs araend of late. Any servants that had a hand in the Knight’s protection. And those four wee bairns, always comin’ up here. There’s no’ a Black Knight in the world who’s worth losin’ all this finery over, I’d wager. If ye have him, give him up now, my Lady... or I warn ye... ye’ll live to regret it.”

“There are no Black Knights on the grounds,” Anathema said, believing it to be the truth. She gave the Witchfinder a long, careful look. Then, with no smile at all, she offered, “Why don’t you come in for some tea, Sergeant. It’s Christmas Eve! I think everyone in the house would love to get to know you. You’ll like them all, I promise. Just... talk. Talk to them.”

“Pah! Go inside? And have ye feed me to yer shackled beast, hag?! Think not!” Sergeant Shadwell shouldered his gun once more, and stomped to the gate, opened it, and left. He set the blaster into a holster on his horse’s side, then struggled to mount the stocky old bay for about ten seconds, but managed it at last.

Anathema and Shadwell stared at each other through the gate, their horses parallel but facing opposite directions.

Something had shifted in Shadwell’s perception of Lady Anathema. He now looked at her with distrust. So she no longer wore her smile as a mask, nor as a weapon. She stared at him, steely-eyed, through the bars of the gate.

“I’ll find it,” Shadwell promised. “And I’ll be bringin’ it down. Even if I have to come back wi’h the whole Witchfinder Army rallied as reinforcements. If ye won’t give the beast up, ye mark my words, I’ll be back to take him.” He turned to the winding white road, clacked his reins with a “Yah!” and bucked off down the road, fading into fog.

Fearful, Anathema turned her horse and made her way back home.

  


**♔**

  


The Christmas tree was an eight-foot beauty, chosen from the forest the day before by Anathema, and hand-felled by Newton, who stood proudly now, his arm around Anathema’s shoulders as they admired the tree, which took pride of place on the far side of the living room.

The kids were all here, dressed in their pyjamas already, excited for their first sleepover at the Device Estate. They bickered over baubles, but got along for long enough to hang them without breaking any.

Zira was dressed down to his rolled-up shirtsleeves and waistcoat, singing carols with a jaunty “pom-pop-pom” as he picked out baubles and hung them wherever the children couldn’t reach. His white curls jostled every time he moved to the rhythm.

Crowley had all his hair braided into a plait with a black ribbon at the end, and Anathema hadn’t yet sought to ask whether he did it himself, Zira did it, or if the kids had ambushed him after dinner. Either way, he looked pleased, leaning on the back of the sofa, long legs crossed at the ankles. He wore the tightest black trousers Anathema ever had in her possession, and a more flowy blouse, with a floppy red ribbon tied at his throat. It seemed clear by now that Anathema wasn’t ever getting those boots back.

“No, _I’ll_ do the red one,” Pepper said, snatching a decoration from Brian. “You got all the blue ones.”

“Mine were all small,” Brian said.

“Actually, you got the biggest one as well,” Wensley said, “so if you average it out—”

“Crowley should do one,” Adam said, taking the glass spire and looking away from the tree. “Anathema and Newt did the star, and Zira’s doing all the high ones.” Adam offered the bauble. “You should do one.”

“Naaah, I’m good,” Crowley said, flaring his fingers. “It’s fun watching.”

“But we’re all meant to do one,” Anathema reminded him gently. “Part of the Christmas Eve festivities.”

Crowley shook his head, taking his own hand as he looked down. “I’m fine. Really. Anyway, it’s a family thing. You lot have your traditions.”

It went quiet in the living room. Even the children stopped yapping at each other in the background.

When Crowley looked up, wondering why it was quiet, he startled: everyone was looking at him. “Wh-wh-what. What did I say.”

Zira sighed, soft-eyed, shoulders slumping. He stepped up to Adam and took the bauble, and Adam let him take it. Zira put on a smile and went up to Crowley, touching his hand and scooping it gently into his own. “Darling,” he said quietly. “You are family.”

Crowley stared at him. “What?”

Zira held his eyes. “You’re _part_ of this family. As much as any of us. None of us here is related. We found each other, just as we found you. And,” he placed the bauble in Crowley’s open palm, held from underneath by Zira’s, “we’re keeping you.”

Crowley looked at the tree decoration. Then at Zira. Then at the children, at Newt, and at Anathema. “This is a joke, isn’t it.”

The kids grinned, but Zira’s face fell. “No!” Zira pulled Crowley off the back of the sofa and led him to the tree. “Come on. No arguments.” He positioned him in front of the tree, holding his arms from behind. “Wherever you like.”

Crowley tried to laugh this all off, but it came out as a panicked huff. “You’re not really serious,” he insisted, looking around. “I was a Black Knight, I’m— I’m your enemy, I’m a plague on this household, I’m a danger to you all, I—”

He absolutely did not expect the riot that ensued in opposition to every single one of those statements. They really wanted him to hang this damn bauble.

Crowley frowned at the red spiral in his hand, glass blown to look like a twisted blood icicle. He supposed it was fitting for someone like him.

Checking one last time with Zira – who was smiling sweetly – Crowley let out a breath, and... slowly... raised the bauble to a point on a branch not too far above his head. He used his other hand to loop the strings over, and gently tugged each end to tie it tight so it wouldn’t slip off.

Warm cheers and applause came from all around, and for a moment, Crowley felt like he was floating a foot off the ground, snug in the company of people who loved him.

He expected the feeling to wear off, the way all the best emotions faded...

But even when he stepped back, and the kids went back to chattering, and Newt and Anathema discussed tomorrow’s plans, and Zira came to put his hand on Crowley’s back, Crowley was still aglow with joy.

Crowley returned to the sofa, sitting on its back like before, hands on its carved edge, staring at nothing, a faint smile on his lips.

Zira leaned beside him. “It’s not a joke, my dear,” he said quietly. “Neither are we exaggerating, lying, deluded, or misunderstanding anything fundamental about your personality.”

“But, angel, are you _sure_—”

Zira took his hand and held it. His gaze was ferociously loving. “Yes,” he said.

And Crowley couldn’t help it... he believed him.

  


**♔**

  


The children stampeded up and down the long hallway, chasing each other as their dog barked. The hall rug rucked up on the floorboards, and Bertha hurried along, begging them to stop Dog chewing the carpet.

Crowley and Aziraphale stood just out of the way of the chaos, on the border between the doors of their guest rooms. The flames on Zira’s candelabra darted this way and that, swayed by the gusts the children’s movements were kicking up.

“I don’t know how they’re not tired already,” Crowley intoned, blinking hard as he fought back a yawn. “I could just – aauh? aaaaaaauh...” He sniffed. “Sleep for days. Huddled under a dozen blankets. Fireplace or not, ‘s too cold.” He tucked his hands under his arms.

“You’re always so cold,” Zira said in concern. “Is Cook not feeding you enough?”

“I eat fine, angel, I’m just— I’m cold-blooded by nature. Like a snake. Winter doesn’t agree with me.”

“Hm,” Zira said. He seemed about to suggest a solution, but censored himself, lips pressed together.

“Perhaps...” Crowley slowly bit his lip, then leaned forward to check both ways up the corridor and make sure nobody would hear. He then turned to Zira and murmured, secretively, “I could alwayys...”

Zira gave Crowley a slow look. “You cannot _actually_ be suggesting...” his eyes darted away, then rolled towards the floor, “what I infer... you are implying...?”

Crowley feigned innocence. “Which is?”

“That we... _share_ a bed.”

Crowley shrugged. “We’ve done it before...”

Zira fretted over the idea for a while, but eventually swallowed, and admitted, “I suppose it _was_... somewhat cozy.”

Their eyes met, sharing a growing smile – which was hurriedly schooled away as Winnie came up the stairs and rushed past with a lantern, asking the children to please, if possible, be a bit more quiet, because Lady Anathema had gone to bed and the staff had incredibly early mornings.

“So,” Crowley said out of the corner of his mouth, watching the servants wrestle with Dog while Dog wrestled the carpet. “Do we wait until they’re all distracted and sneak into your room?”

Zira fought back a blush. “Perhaps.” He lifted his chin, pretending to give the canine-versus-carpet drama ahead his undivided attention. “Or we each go our separate ways, and when it quiets down, one of us comes to... _visit_ the other.”

“Waste of firewood,” Crowley uttered in distaste. “Poor girls go around making up fires for the both of us and one goes unused.”

“Yes, well,” Zira said primly, “we can’t very well _tell_ them, can we?”

“Why not?” Crowley shrugged, hands clasped behind his back. “We pick which room we want to sleep in, then the other of us informs the maid we don’t need the fire at night. Easy.”

“But Crowley, it’s _freezing_,” Zira tutted. “There’ll be _questions_.”

“So?” Crowley shrugged. “Sure we could make something up.”

“But that would be _lying_!”

“E’yeaaahh,” Crowley croaked, head cocked. “Possibly? But it’s either that or the truth, and I know which of those would be harder to explain. Look, angel, do you want to sleep with me or not?”

Zira sighed hard, eyes rising to the high brown rafters. “Fine. But we’re sleeping in my bed, not yours. I don’t want to be the one making up lies.”

Crowley’s too-big smile was already starting to ache on his face.

With one reluctant word from Adam, Dog ceased attacking the carpet. The servants slumped in relief, then Bertha began shooing the children to their respective guest rooms. Winnie watched them go, one hand sinking through her short-cropped kinks of hair. She turned on the spot, lantern swinging, and her eyes lit up as she saw Crowley and Zira trying to pretend they hadn’t been outlining the terms of their clandestine affair.

“You should do it,” Winnie said, more boldly than servants usually said anything.

“I’m sorry?” Zira asked, eyebrows rising.

“Move in together.” Winnie was smirking, apparently blazing with confidence that came from the now-obvious fact that she knew _exactly_ what they’d been discussing. “Share a bed. Save me knocking on two doors in the morning.”

She curtseyed, and left for the staircase, looking back with that same insubordinate spirit in her eyes. The moment she was gone, Zira slid his hand to take Crowley’s, both turning to face the other.

In the moments of shock that followed Winnie’s departure, there were so many things they could’ve said – about the unchecked _cheek_ the servants exhibited these days, about the fact Crowley and Zira hadn’t been careful enough in concealing their affections, about the fact it seemed like practically everyone around here seemed to _know_ already, so what was the point in hiding? – but in the end, they said nothing.

Crowley cradled Zira’s cheek, gave him a kiss, then slid a hand down, again took hold of Zira’s fingers gently between his own, and led him to what was previously Zira’s room, but now, as of tonight, belonged to them both.

  


**♔**

  



	16. Christmas

Crowley had heard Zira’s laugh probably a thousand times by now. He knew the sound of Zira’s stomach rumbling, and the sound of his body digesting a heavy meal. He knew him pleased, he knew him annoyed, he knew him angry. He knew Zira’s whines of discomfort and sighs of frustration. He’d heard Zira shuddering with fear, weeping silently the day the Witchfinder had come to the door.

But he’d never heard Zira weeping like this.

Crowley stood at the top of the stairs, pausing there with his hand on the banister as he registered what he was hearing. Just after dawn, Winnie had called Zira to look at something while Crowley was still half-asleep, but Crowley had thought it would be breakfast-related, not something that left Zira grieving.

Zira was hunched at the bottom of the stairs, his back to Crowley, shoulders shaking. He breathed in wet shudders, five at once, followed by some sniffing, some calming breaths, but then he’d bow his head and cry into his hands again, trying to stay quiet.

Crowley descended the stairs in bare feet, the hem of his black nightgown sweeping each stair. He came up next to Zira and sat with him, the sides of their knees pressed together.

Zira clutched a lacy handkerchief to his face, lifting it for only a moment to glance at Crowley, his eyes sore and red. “Oh,” he whispered, voice thick. “It’s you.”

Crowley slid a hand to hold Zira’s knee, thumbing at the ruffles on his nightgown. He stroked him, but didn’t ask what was wrong.

He saw a crumpled letter on Zira’s lap, which Zira held with one hand. It was about to fall – Crowley took it, pulling it back to Zira’s lap.

Zira sniffed and exhaled wetly, then looked down, and handed the letter to Crowley.

Crowley hesitated, then opened out the paper. It was a letter from Westminster Bank.

He started to read.

He finished reading.

Then he read it again.

“Oh, angel...” All of Crowley’s breath sank out of him. “On Christmas, as well.”

Zira pressed his lips together, trying to look brave. He sniffled, then wiped his eyes again, explaining, “Cook f-found it tucked under a crate of vegetables this morning. It was – there for a few days. Must’ve been – brought in with the Christmas deliveries, and accidentally misplaced.”

“This was the letter you were waiting for.”

“I knew it was coming,” Zira said, fiddling with his wet hanky and shaking his head. “I’d been waiting for it for... months, I suppose. Years. After all my meticulous calculations I knew it would arrive this week.”

Crowley hugged himself, gulping. He took a worried breath, then asked, “I have to ask... Is this... my fault?”

Zira looked at him. “Oh, Heavens, no! No, Crowley.” He took Crowley’s hand; Crowley ignored how clammy Zira’s hands were. “It was my choice to be here. I wanted to be here.” He gave Crowley a sad smile.

“No,” Zira reiterated, eyes lowering, “this went far beyond what’s happened these last months. I’ve been donating money to the Resistance since I gained access to my inheritance. To be honest... I thought the war would’ve ended long ago, and it wouldn’t cost as much as it has. But for over thirty years, I’ve been financing my side of the fight. I ran the bookshop mostly for my own satisfaction, but also to keep a steady income... but I’ve known for a very long time that the bookkeeping didn’t balance out, and never would. The money was bound to run out eventually.”

“This is Gabriel’s fault,” Crowley said darkly. “He’s been bleeding you dry. Just because he’s a Duke now, and commands half the squadrons of the Resistance doesn’t mean he or Michael deserved everything you had.”

“I owed it to them,” Zira said firmly. “I had the money. I could pay for the resources the armies needed. So I’m doing my part.” He frowned. “Or... I was. I suppose I won’t have an army left to support, now.”

“But your bookshop...”

“The building and the contents are still valuable assets,” Zira shrugged. “Over the years I’ve sold off every other asset I had in order to pay my dues. I... s-suppose I could... also sell the buhhh... at auh-hhction...” His sentence devolved into wet sobs, and he fell against Crowley, who embraced him, pushing his cheek to Zira’s crown and nuzzling, trying to comfort him.

“What you said,” Zira rasped, sitting back, pawing at his wet cheeks, “about running away, escaping it all. That doesn’t sound so unreasonable now, does it? I have nothing left. Without money I’m no use to the Resistance, I’m no use to anyone.”

“You don’t have nothing,” Crowley promised. “The people here... your family... You have us.”

“I’m a drain on Anathema’s resources too,” Zira said. “Although I suppose I have no choice but to stay now. My home was over the bookshop. I have nowhere else to go.” He sighed. “Maybe I’ll go somewhere nobody knows me. Start my life over from scratch.”

Crowley smiled. “So long as you promise not to go alone.”

Zira caught his eye, and they shared a hopeful moment.

Crowley leaned into Zira, knocking his shoulder. “Come on, don’t give up, angel. It’s not over for good. You could open a _new_ bookshop! A smaller one.”

“Someday?” Zira managed a smile. He nodded, sniffing and wiping his face. “Yes. But there’s a hundred things that need to happen before then. I need to collect all the books from the shop before debt collectors start poking around. Need to put th-the, um. Put the building up for sale. Or rent it out, so I have some money coming in, at least.”

“Well, it’s not happening today,” Crowley said, slipping a hand under Zira’s bicep, locking elbows. “It’s Christmas. Gotta do Christmas things. Not go around ransacking bookshops.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Zira muttered. “This bank statement reached me late. Every day we dawdle, I’m one day closer to having my property purloined. I need to... go back to London. See my solicitors. Cancel all my recurring payments before people start realising I don’t have anything to pay with. I may not have any money left, but I do still have a trustworthy name to uphold.”

Crowley hummed. He leaned in and gave Zira a soft kiss on the cheek. “Alright. We’ll figure it out. But for now... let’s get dressed. Have some breakfast. And try and have a decent Christmas. Okay?”

Zira smiled gratefully, eyes shining as he looked at Crowley. “Okay.”

  


**♔**

  


The kids had their own families to get home to for Christmas dinner, so Anathema called for an early meal, which, given the fact the sun set at four p.m., was still technically an evening meal, even at two o’clock.

Lady Anathema sat at the head of the table, as always, with her left flanked by Zira, followed by Crowley; Newt was on her right, followed by Adam, and the two other boys near the end of the table, with Pepper directly opposite Anathema.

Winnie came by to fill up the wine glasses. Crowley made a disgruntled noise when the glass was left half-full, so Winnie smiled and filled it to the brim, making Crowley grin. Bertha was still piling up the empty plates from the first course onto her wheeled tray.

“So what you’re sayin’ is,” Adam said, leaning past his popped Christmas cracker, “the Resistance only liked you because you were rich?”

“No!” Zira fiddled with the gunpowder strip that had been tucked into his own cracker. “Well,” he said gruffly, before wilting a bit, causing his white paper crown slump to his eyebrows. “When you put it like that...”

“Don’t think about it, angel,” Crowley said, adjusting his own red crown, only to leave it crooked. “They didn’t know what they had.”

“They still _have_ me, I’m not going anywhere yet,” Zira argued. “I’m sure I can find other ways to show my support. If that invitation to the Winter Ball ever does arrive, I can make an appearance, impart a few encouraging words to the troops.”

“Regardless,” Anathema gave Zira’s arm a squeeze, “we can all help you get your books tonight, at least.”

“Can we come?” Pepper asked, still forking around her figgy pudding and turning her custard grey with crumbs. “We’d be loads of help.”

“Sorry, sweetie, your parents want you home,” Anathema soothed. “And we’d be going in different directions, anyway. I’ll send you kids home in a cab to Tadfield, Zira and I can take the biggest carriage to Westminster. I have a property I’m renting out in Ealing. Countess Uriel wouldn’t mind if we used the basement to house the books for a few weeks.”

“I can help,” Newt offered. He crooked a skinny arm. “Could lift a few books.”

Anathema gave him a soft smile. “Sure. Only problem is that then Crowley’s left alone and I don’t think Shadwell believes in taking a night off when there’s a beast about.”

“I’ll still be here, my Lady,” Winnie piped up from near the door. She looked at the fire poker she was using, and gave it a testing swoop. “I could protect him.”

Crowley looked between the women, apparently getting upset. “Can’t I come? I can wear the sunglasses.”

“Oh, yes,” Zira brightened. “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” He looked excitedly at Anathema. “Poor Crowley would never get to see the shop otherwise. And this... would be the last chance...”

Anathema was about to say no, but then supposed there couldn’t be much harm, could there? “Just keep a low profile,” she warned Crowley. She then looked to Winnie. “Thanks anyway, sweetheart. Go enjoy the Christmas presents I got you all.”

Winnie curtseyed. “Anything for you and your family, my Lady.”

Even once the lady’s maid left, Anathema was left smiling. “Sweet girl,” she murmured, seeing Crowley smile too.

  


**♔**

  


After they’d eaten, they relocated to the living room, where the fire was biggest and they could appreciate the Christmas tree. Zira sat on his favourite footstool, while Crowley perched with his bottom on the carved arm of the sofa, both socked feet on Zira’s lap. Anathema and Newt sat leaning comfortably against each other on the other end of the couch, watching, clapping along as Zira directed the children in a choral Christmas song.

The high notes were flat and the low notes were comedically forced, but in general, the song came out... _almost_ angelic. It ended with a peal of laughter rather than a note, but Zira didn’t seem to mind, all bright-eyed and happy. He lay his now unbusy hands on Crowley’s feet. Crowley wiggled his toes to tickle him.

As the kids ran to the tree to get their gifts, Anathema noticed how Newt looked at his own arm, banded around Anathema’s shoulders, fingers teasing her long, black hair – then looked over at Crowley and Zira.

For all the things Newton Pulsifer was – tall, dark, almost handsome, adorable and kind and fun – Anathema would not be the first to say he was observant. 

Newt looked at how Anathema’s hand was holding his knee.

Then he looked at how Zira held Crowley’s feet.

He was frowning.

“Problem?” Anathema asked him softly.

“Are they...?” Newt was confused. “No. No, never mind, I—” He took off his spectacles. “Probably need to clean these.” He did. But that wasn’t the reason he’d seen what he’d seen.

“Can we open them now?” Brian asked, sitting cross-legged on the rug between the sofa and the fire. “Pleeeeease.”

“Go ahead,” Anathema grinned.

The kids tore into the wrapped boxes, pulling out games and toys she thought they’d enjoy. She’d gotten Brian a catapult and a mostly-harmless bow-and-arrow, Wensley a set of dominos and a book on astronomy, Adam a pack of cards and small guidebook on magic tricks, and Pepper all the parts to make her own clock, as well as a small extra gift with a glittery comb for her hair. Judging by the shouts of contentment, followed by a paper-ruffly, box-fiddling kind of silence as they started learning how to use their gifts, she’d done a good job.

“I know it’s not much,” Zira said, sitting back down on his footstool, gift in hand, “but I was limited what they had in town, so...”

“Pff,” Crowley said. “Me, I was limited by what was in the house. Bet yours is better.”

They swapped presents, checking the other was ready before opening them up. Zira undid the golden ribbon carefully, and unfolded the wrapping the way it was done up, while Crowley set the whole thing in his teeth and tore it with a bite. He poked in with two fingers, and pulled out...

“Ohh,” Crowley seemed to melt. He opened the velvet-covered jewellery box with care, appreciation ablaze in his every movement, from the relaxed bow of his shoulders to the softness in his eyes when he looked up. “Is this really for me?”

Zira hadn’t finished unwrapping his gift, but set it aside and shuffled forward. He said nothing – he took the box, and lifted out a glittering silver necklace with black crystals hung from it like raindrops. He stood up to get behind Crowley. Crowley bit his lip as he smiled, eyes glazed and unfocused as he straightened up, neck long.

Zira did up the necklace for him, pulling wavy red hair out afterwards, then bowing to kiss Crowley’s shoulder.

Crowley turned his head to look at Zira when he stepped back.

“Thank you,” Crowley breathed. Zira held his hand for a moment, then sat.

Newt breathed out slowly, watching Crowley fingering his necklace.

“Hm,” Newt said. He seemed worried.

Anathema gave his knee a squeeze. _It’s okay_, she meant.

Newt hesitated, then patted Anathema’s arm, then held her hand. _I suppose I’ll get used to it._

Zira got back to unboxing his own gift. He opened the box, looked in... Then his brows wrinkled... He pulled out a scruffy wad of paper, all bound together with disastrously mangled stitching.

Crowley shrugged when Zira looked at him. “I tried.”

“What is it?” Anathema asked, leaning forward.

Zira turned the paper pile around, then rotated it one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, then flipped it over. “It’s a _book_!” he exclaimed, unbridled joy clenching his throat. “Crowley!” He stood up and flung himself around Crowley’s shoulders, squeezing him tight. Zira fell back, breathless. “When on Earth did you make this? This must’ve taken weeks!”

Crowley rolled a shoulder, hugging himself. “Whenever you were writing your journal, or went out.”

Zira huffed in awe, falling back down to sit. He stroked the front cover, which was curled and battered, presumably from being hastily hidden and shoved in awkward places.

“_How the Snake Got Her Legs_,” Zira read.

“‘Cause she starts off as an earthworm, see,” Crowley said, inching forward with an eager smile. “And then she meets a little bird who’s meant to eat her, but doesn’t, and then the worm realises she’s really just a small snake, and the bird takes her to his nest, right, and there’s this bit where – well, it’s not really a – anyway the _point_ is, the bird teaches the snake to walk, and then the bird—”

“Darling— Darling, _please_, you’re spoiling the whole thing,” Zira pleaded, patting frantically on Crowley’s knee. “Let me read it before you tell me about it, okay?”

Crowley smiled guiltily. “Sorry about the handwriting.”

Anathema caught a small glimpse of the writing, and saw it was blocky, lopsided, and all the letters were different sizes – overall it looked like a six-year-old’s. Crowley had clearly learned to write from books, not from a teacher.

“It’s beautiful,” Zira said, without a trace of a lie. He looked up at Crowley with tears in his eyes. “Thank you so much, Crowley.”

Crowley touched the necklace he wore, stroking over his heart. “Thank _you_, angel.”

“Can we play dominoes?” Wensley asked, blinking huge eyes behind his spectacles. “I think it would be more fun with more people.”

Although there were further gifts to exchange, there wasn’t enough time to open them _and_ play before the kids had to go home, so the adults slipped off the sofa and sat on the rug, ready to have some fun.

Crowley was most baffled by the dominoes. “So the point is just to... match the number of dots on one side. With a domino that someone else put down. And the first to get rid of all their dominoes wins.”

“Pretty much,” Pepper said.

“...Why,” Crowley squinted.

Nobody had a good answer. The general consensus was “because it’s fun”.

Crowley wasn’t convinced.

But they played a few rounds, each player only having the opportunity to put down a couple of dominoes each before they ran out. It became obvious that whoever took the first go was most likely to win, so the kids fought over taking the first go, until Newt suggested that only two or three people play at once, so each player had more dominoes to use.

So Anathema played against Pepper and Adam, and Pepper won. Newt versus Brian versus Wensley left Brian victorious. Zira and Crowley played each other – and Crowley very suddenly and very explosively understood the value of winning.

“Ah-ha-HAH!” he cheered, both arms flung in the air. “Got you, you bastard! Six on six! Ha!”

“Now, my dear, look here—”

“Nope! All mine. All miiiine.” Crowley hissed through a grin and lay a forearm on the floor, scooping all the dominoes towards himself. “Mine.”

“Actually, they’re mine,” Wensleydale said. “And you don’t keep them when you win, anyway, you just play again.”

“So I don’t win anything but bragging rights?” Crowley sneered, shoving all the dominoes to Wensley. “Huh.”

“We can play snap?” Adam suggested, shuffling his deck of cards. “There’s enough cards that we could all play.”

Crowley again did not know what snap was, how to play, or what the point was.

Pepper stared at him, aghast. “How have you been _alive_ for so long without playing games? What do Black Knights even do for fun?”

Crowley rolled a shoulder. “Shoot things? Throw knives. Burn stuff. Fight. Sleep. Try not to die. It’s kind of thrilling, I guess. I used to poke my fingers with pins until I bled, that was... fun.”

After a long, uncomfortable silence, Zira slipped a hand into Crowley’s, lifted his hand, and kissed his knuckles. “Now you play snap,” he told him.

Once Crowley had a handle on the rules Adam decided on, the group played through a few rounds, slapping down cards in the middle of the circle, matching numbers to numbers, and, when nobody had any 2s or 9s or Jacks, matching whatever card Adam slammed down on the top of the pile, as fast as humanly possible.

The cards were bent and battered by the third round, which made Adam gleeful. “They’re _proper_ cards, now,” he said.

By the fourth round, Crowley was wild-eyed and laughing manically, acquiring cards and cackling, hoarding his winnings to his body like a dragon hoarding gems. He looked rather unhinged, every sense heightened. There was something distinctly animalistic about him.

Suffice to say, he won that round. And the next three. He grinned, and his teeth looked unusually pointy.

“Dear,” Zira said, noticing that everyone else was either looking worried about Crowley, or bored, because there was barely any point playing when Crowley would either smash down a card first, or slap someone else’s hand flat, which hurt. “Is there any chance you might be willing to let other people win too?”

Crowley sneered. “If they want to win they should play better.”

“Yes but— It’s not about the winning, you see,” Zira explained carefully. “It’s about having _fun_. And—”

“I am having fun,” Crowley argued. “Having fun winning.” He was hugging all fifty-two cards to his chest in a messy, spread-out pile.

Zira licked his lips. “Yes. I see that. But. Thing is. We’re playing this so we spend quality time with people we love. And slapping their hands and not letting anyone else have a turn isn’t very sporting, is it?”

Crowley stared at him, perplexed. “I thought you said the _point_ was to win.”

Pepper leaned forward, despairing, “You could let someone _else_ win for once. Otherwise it’s not fair. Or fun.”

Crowley stared at her. Then at Zira. “But.”

He was very, very confused.

Zira sighed, leaning close to scoop all the cards out of Crowley’s grip. “Perhaps we’d better play something else.” Crowley let him take the cards, but pined after them, still baffled.

Crowley watched Wensley gather the cards together, and watched Adam pat them down into a neat pile, and watched Brian squash them together, and watched Pepper squeeze them into the box they came from.

Crowley rested his chin on his fist, elbow on his knee, watching the cards put away in Adam’s pocket. He did not get it, not even a little.

“_I_ know what we can do,” Pepper said, getting up. She went to a drawer in the living room’s side table, got out some colouring pens, and went to sit in the middle of the family circle, right in front of Crowley. “Look,” she said, giving Crowley a hard stare. “The Black Knights are obsessed with winning this stupid war. They just want to hurt people and accumulate all the resources that are supposed to be shared out with everyone else. But you’re not a Black Knight anymore. So stop acting like one.” With that, she uncapped a black colouring pen, took Crowley’s chin, turned his head, and set the pen on the sword tattoo on his face.

Crowley let her do whatever it was she was doing, hoping he would understand once she was done.

Pepper chewed her tongue as she drew. The others gathered around and beside her, their silhouettes haloed by the fire, all watching what Pepper was doing. Anathema started to grin, remarking, “Oh, that’s perfect.”

Zira sat in silence, a tiny smile fluttering on the corners of his lips.

“There,” Pepper said, leaning back.

Crowley looked around.

Zira slid the handheld mirror out from under the sofa cushions and held it up.

Crowley first saw the necklace, which looked just as beautiful as he thought it did. He smiled, liking the shards of the beads under his fingertips. Then... he turned his head. He could barely see the redrawn tattoo out of the corner of his eye, but could see enough...

“A snake?” he asked.

“It covers the sword,” Pepper said. “You’d never even know it was there.”

“I can see an infinity symbol,” Zira said. “Two coils of the snake... Oh, you’re _very_ good, Pepper, well done.”

Crowley looked at his face again, then at Pepper. “Thanksss,” he said – and the hiss made Pepper grin.

Did he understand now? Did he understand why he _shouldn’t_ be trying to win, even though that was literally the point? No. He did not.

But he did understand that he was different now. A snake. Not a sword, and not a worm. He was not all he’d once been. Greater, worse? Barely mattered. He didn’t want to be what the Black Knights had trained him to be. And if the ones he cared about thought it was important that he changed, for his own benefit, and for theirs, then he would.

  


**♔**

  



	17. Traitor vs. Spy

“Byeeee! Merry Christmaaaas!”

Young voices danced in the night, bright as bells, happy as mice in a cheese drawer. Anathema wrapped each child in a hug, then helped them up into the hansom cab that would take them home to Tadfield.

Zira stood nearby, waving at the cab, his other hand keeping Crowley warm, while Crowley stamped his feet in the snow and sniffed while his teeth chattered.

“Byeee!” Anathema called after the cab, arm up to wave as the cab driver turned the carriage and trotted off down the driveway.

Anathema then turned to Zira and Crowley. “You two ready?”

Crowley’s coat collar was propped all the way up, he wore a black scarf _and_ Zira’s tartan one, and gloves, and was still cold. He nodded.

“You sure you won’t stay behind, dear,” Zira asked. “It’s much warmer inside.”

“G-go-gotg-gotta go t’se-sesee yoururr-r bbooksh-shsshop-p.”

Zira sighed, holding Crowley’s hand tighter. He resigned himself to having a very cold snake for a lover, then turned to Anathema and nodded.

Anathema waved over the biggest carriage, and it came trotting up, Ophelia and Nellie pulling it side-by-side. This was the coronation carriage – used only for fancy events like the upcoming Ball... and as a useful vehicle for book-moving. This thing was practically a bus. A bus with golden detailing around every edge, and twisted golden handles.

Newt opened the carriage door for Anathema, and she thanked him and climbed up, holding his hand. Newt kept the door open as Crowley and Zira got in too, Crowley tripping on the step because of how much he was shivering.

Anathema leaned out of the window and called to Wignall, “On to Westminster, Wignall. Pace the horses, we’ll be making several trips up and down the Thames.”

“Yes, my Lady,” Wignall replied.

As Anathema drew back into the carriage, she shut the window, then settled back into her red leather seat next to Newt, looking at Crowley opposite. He was curling around himself, heeled boots up on the seat, arms around his legs. “Vuvvuvvvuvvvuvuvuvuuv,” he said, ad nauseam.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Zira said, opening his arms. “Come here, would you?”

Crowley whimpered and fell against Zira, burying his face against Zira’s chest, their legs entwining. He shook and shivered for a while, but soon Zira’s warmth placated Crowley’s mortal form, and he relaxed.

Newt was staring. Anathema whacked his leg.

But Newt went ahead and said, “Pardon me for asking, but are you two a couple?”

Crowley looked up when Zira did.

“Um,” Zira said. He put on a nervous smile. “We are... _a_ couple. A couple of people. Two people. Two separate sentient entities. A pair of people, as such. In that sense, yes.”

“No, I mean,” Newt leaned forward, lowering his voice, “it’s just that you seem very close. And I was wondering—”

“Newt,” Anathema said, taking Newt’s arm, “they are whatever they are, we don’t need to bother them about it.”

“I’m not bothering them, I’ve just never seen two men like that.”

Crowley lifted his chin. A small hiss escaped him. “Not men.”

Zira squeezed him. “Shh.”

“What’s that?” Newt was too curious to let it go. “You’re not what?”

Zira squeaked, looking pointedly at Crowley. But Crowley looked back with a sad frown, discontent enough that Zira soon gave in, looking forcibly out of the window as Crowley sat up and said, “’M not a man. Neither of us are.”

Even Anathema couldn’t breeze past that. “Wait, you’re not?” The part of her that was hungry for knowledge was suddenly ravenous. “So... who – what... _how?_... are you?”

Crowley and Zira exchanged glances.

“We’re... ‘other’,” Crowley decided. “Neither man nor woman.”

“Neuter,” Zira volunteered.

Newt and Anathema looked at each other.

“Huh,” Newt said.

Anathema leaned in. “How long has it been like this?” She looked at Zira.

Zira bit his lip, shrugging. “Since I was young.”

Anathema stared for a while, stunned, then eventually sank back. “I’m... sorry you never told me.”

“I...” Zira shrugged. “I never told anyone. Besides.” He touched Crowley’s leg, then curled a fist there. “I never met anyone else like me. I didn’t even know how to put it into _words_ until Crowley came along.”

Anathema managed a tiny smile. “Then I’m glad you found each other.”

Zira smiled at his lap, then smiled at Crowley. “Me too.”

Crowley gazed back with all the love in the world brimming in his golden eyes. He leaned close and kissed Zira’s nose, making Zira coo.

Newt sat back now, nodding, apparently satisfied with the answer to his question.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Anathema told Newt. “Their lives could depend on our secrecy.”

Newt nodded. He locked eyes with Zira, then Crowley. “You have my word.”

They took the rest of the ride to central London in a joyous, comfortable silence.

  


**♔**

  


“There it is,” Zira said, one hand rising to press to his heart. “My little bookshop! Oh, it’s so good to see it again. Hallo, old friend.”

Crowley nearly climbed in Zira’s lap to see out. His breath fogged the glass. “That’s it?”

“Well, the lights are all off and it’s dark outside, it doesn’t have any of the friendly ambience it usually has,” Zira explained. “But once we light the candles it’ll be marvellous.”

Crowley arched his lips acceptingly. “We’re getting out then, are we? Shifting books?”

“Ah, yes. I’d like to start with the first-editions, please, they’re the most valuable. We must be very careful – absolutely no books are to be dropped in the snow due to unexpected shivers or sneezes, _Crowley_, do you hear me?”

“Yeyeyeah,” Crowley replied, poking his sunglasses further up his nose. “I’ll stay inside and pass books to other people. Can set up a fireman’s chain.”

“Fire-_person_’s chain,” Newt corrected. He smiled kindly. “To account for all kinds of people.”

Anathema laughed to herself. If she ever needed reminding why she was engaged to this man, this was why.

“Yes,” Zira said, with a pinch of confusion between his brows. “Quite.”

The carriage pulled up to a stop at the side of the road. From here Crowley could make out the painted sign over the shop. “A. Z. Fell and Co,” Crowley read. “What’s the ‘A’ stand for?”

“Oh... it’s just an ‘A’, really,” Zira said. “When people are looking for bookshops in a list of other bookshops, the ‘A’ puts mine near the top.”

Crowley nodded approvingly. “Doesn’t secretly stand for Agatha, does it?”

“Ah. No.”

“Azalea?”

“No.”

“Aurelia?”

“That’s a pretty name, but no.”

Wignall opened the door for them, and Zira got out first, followed by Crowley.

“Alberta?”

“No, Crowley. Thank you, Mr. Wignall.”

Crowley huffed out a cloud of white as Newt and Anathema got out behind him, boots touching down to filthy, mushy snow. “And who’s the ‘Co’?”

“Nobody. It sounded lonely without it,” Zira admitted, fumbling in his pocket for the bookshop’s key.

“Ava?” Crowley tried. “Amethyst? Ooh-ooh, I know – Angela.”

“Crowley, would you _hush_?” Zira unlocked the front door, and gestured his friends in. “And come on in quickly, you’ll catch your death out here.”

“‘Scuse me, sir,” Wignall said, taking off his cap, “Sir Crowley?”

Crowley turned. “Wuh?”

“I think when you went out riding the other day, you left one of your belongings clipped to Ophelia’s tack...”

“I did?” Crowley didn’t remember losing anything.

“If you’d just come look, sir. Need to know if it’s yours, that’s all.”

Crowley turned to Zira, but Zira waved, about to close the door. “Cold’s coming in. Join us when you’re done!” And then he was gone; the door dinged with a bell chime.

Crowley looked back at the driver. He had a simple enough expression, none of that all-consuming animosity Crowley had seen through the window weeks before. Wignall beckoned, leading Crowley to the black horse in the road, further from the shop.

“See, it was tied to her stirrup back here,” Wignall said, going behind the massive horse...

Crowley hesitated, but he was starting to shiver, so decided to make it quick. He stepped into the road and passed Ophelia’s nose, patting her on his way...

Two rough hands took Crowley by the lapels and wrenched him behind the carriage – Crowley’s back was slammed to the solid side of it and he was left winded, stunned, too stunned to breathe in for a couple of seconds. When he did, the world was spinning, his torso bent towards the ground. He gathered his strength and stood up, not sure what had hit him.

Then a fist hit him.

“What have you told them?” Wignall growled, shaking Crowley by the coat. “What have you told the Resistance?”

Crowley fingered the throbbing ache on his jaw, trying to see through the tears. “Wh... what?”

“Don’t play that card, Crowley. What information have you given Lady Anathema about the Black Knights?”

Crowley shook his head. “I don’t know anything.”

Another fist hit him, knocking his sunglasses clean off, smashed onto the snow. He yelled in pain, but it came out weak, near-silent. He was shoved back to his feet, the back of his head hitting the carriage window. He winced.

“I only—” Crowley gasped, one hand trying to push Wignall away. “I told the’hh.” He tasted blood in his mouth. “Told’m everything I knew, which was _nothing_. Did some Duke or Duchess send you to _eke_ something else out of me? Huh. You Resistance bastards won’t _get_ anything else, because I don’t – know – _anything_. Not for certain.”

Wignall grinned. He let Crowley go for a moment, swinging his hands up to point at himself. “You think I’m Resistance?” He barked a laugh, but he didn’t sound amused. “You really _do_ know nothing.” He gave Crowley one more shove against the carriage, rocking the whole thing on its axel.

Wignall loomed into Crowley’s space, turning his head to the side and running fingers through his own thick sideburns, showing Crowley something... As Wignall’s hair bristled, Crowley saw pale skin, and dark lines beside his ear that eventually made a pattern.

“You’re a spy,” Crowley breathed, turning his head to spit blood. “You’re a Black Knight spy.”

“Figures I’d blow my cover over a worthless worm,” Wignall snarled, pinning Crowley to the carriage with both hands, dangerously close to his neck. “Every bit of evidence pointed to you being a traitor. They pamper you, you talk.”

Crowley gave a sideways grin. “Maybe they just _adore_ me. Didn’t think of that, did you?”

Wignall’s hands inched closer to Crowley’s neck. He yanked off Crowley’s two scarves, let both fall to the road – then those brutish hands came uncomfortably close, jostling the beads on Crowley’s black crystal necklace.

“I’m not like you,” Crowley said calmly. He looked Wignall in the eye, seeing a familiar fire there. “I don’t think I was ever like you. And I don’t intend to die over a war that has nothing to do with me. People are just fighting to win and—”

Suddenly, he understood what Pepper and Zira were trying to explain.

“And it’s not about winning. We’re meant to... share. Meant to play the game so everyone gets a chance. So people can just live their lives without being in _danger_ from each other.”

“Ohh, they got to you,” Wignall groaned. “You sound like all the other deserters.”

“Th— Wait, there’s others?!”

Wignall turned down one hand, jerking a dagger from his belt. He lifted the point to Crowley’s throat. “Traitor,” he said.

Crowley arched his lips. “Mm. Yeah. Sounds about right.” He started to smile, tilting his head. “Go on, then.” He stretched out his neck. “Make it quick. Easier than doing it myself.”

Wignall snorted. “You really don’t care?”

“It’s either this or get squashed under a teetering pile of a thousand books, if what I saw through the window is any indication.”

Wignall’s eyes shot to the bookshop. Crowley could see the faint glow of gold on the snow now; the candles had been lit inside.

As Wignall’s eyes moved back to Crowley, a dark smile crept up to show his teeth. “Bet you’d care more if I put the knife to your lover.”

Crowley’s skin chilled, but not a shiver emerged. “What.”

Wignall stepped back, spinning his dagger around a finger. “Sir Zira? Good friend of yours. You seem... close, let’s say.”

Crowley gulped. “Hm. Not too close. Barely friends. Don’t know him. Never even met.”

That glint of murder in Wignall’s eyes turned to a lightning storm. He backed away from Crowley, moving for the bookshop.

“Wait!” Crowley yelped.

Wignall waited. Maybe he was expecting the information he wanted, how much the Resistance knew. Maybe he was expecting Crowley to strike a deal.

But he was not expecting Crowley to slink forward, purring, “I mean it.” Crowley tilted his head, red hair fluffing on his shoulder. “Me and Zira, we’re not friends. The Baronet’s just a passing fancy. What I like... I mean _really_ like...” He caressed Wignall’s square jaw, cooing like he found him handsome. “Mmmm.” Crowley held the man in a thrall of astonishment. Crowley’s gloved fingers tiptoed down Wignall’s chest, and then he _wrenched_ himself in close, drawing a breath, moaning, “I’m sure there’s _something_ I have that could tempt you...”

“I’m not—” Wignall shook his head. “I don’t know what you think, traitor, but I’m not—”

“Not what?” Crowley purled, a coquettish warmth to his voice. “I can be a woman if that’s what you prefer.”

“Ah-hi-I-I—”

Crowley smirked. “No?” He pursed his lips. “Hm. Too bad.” He jerked back, slashing fast with the stolen dagger, cutting Wignall across the chest. The driver staggered back, clutching at himself as he began to bleed fast through his shirt, looking up with a stone-cold stare of hatred.

“You’ll pay for this, traitor,” he growled. “You and your ‘angel’.”

With one swift kick Wignall freed Ophelia from the carriage – Crowley darted back, stumbling to the pavement as the Black Knight mounted the horse, shouting, “To Mouth of Hell, Ophelia!”

She wasted not a second; she stormed from the carriage, breaking the axel as she leapt. Nellie brayed in terror, panicked as the beastly shadow tore down the street. Crowley watched them go.

He hastened to Nellie, calming her, stroking down her nose. “Hey. Heyhey, it’s okay. Calm down. Shhh.” He started to shiver with cold. Then shiver with pain. Then with terror.

He staggered to the bookshop’s door on the street corner, bell jingling as he entered. It was cool but not cold inside; it smelled musty and old.

“Angel,” he whispered. He looked at the bloodied knife in his hand and dropped it. “ZiraAAAaa!”

There was a fumbling and a thumping of steps from an upstairs gallery. “Crowley?”

Zira and Anathema came to the barrier of the balcony, looking down.

“Oh, my dear, you’re hurt, what happened—?” Zira ran down the steps, catching Crowley as he fell to his knees. “Who on Earth did this to y—” He saw the dagger. He looked swiftly to Anathema.

Anathema shook her head. “No.”

“Wignall,” Crowley breathed.

“No, nonono, he’s a good man, he’s loyal, he’s Resistance, he’s—”

“Tattoo,” Crowley said, wriggling a finger at his snake. “Under the sideburns.”

Anathema breathed out, head in her hands. Newt came to her, silent at her side.

“He’s gone,” Crowley breathed, sitting back as Zira examined his wounds. “Took Ophelia back to the Knight’s base in Mayfair. They call it the Mouth of Hell.” Crowley spat blood on his own sleeve, wiping his face after. “And they know.” He looked in dread at Zira. “Angel, the Black Knights know about you and me.”

Zira sank down, eyes shut, resting his forehead on Crowley’s temple.

Crowley swallowed, slipping a hand to hold Zira’s. “We’re in real danger now.” He looked up at Anathema and Newt, then shut his eyes. “All of us are.”

  


**♔**

  



	18. The Lesser Beast

Sitting up in bed, nourished by morning sunshine, Zira read _How the Snake Got Her Legs_ for perhaps the hundredth time. In the twenty-five days that had elapsed since Crowley gifted it, Zira had only come to love it more. He’d taken it to a binder’s shop and had it tidied up, and now no amount of thumbing and page-turning and accidental droppages could do it any damage. Zira had paid for whatever protection money could buy with whatever money he had left, and the book had emerged practically armoured. If Zira had believed in dragons, he’d be convinced the cover was dragon skin, given it looked like tough leather, but was purple – and, once Anathema had worked her magic, fireproof.

A thump sounded on the bedroom door.

Zira looked up from his book. “Oh, there you are,” he said, taking off his reading glasses and folding them on the bedside table with the book. “I thought you’d be back an hour ago.”

“Sorry ‘bout that, angel,” Crowley said, kicking the door closed again, a tray in his hands. He was wearing Zira’s banyan robe, one shoulder of it collapsed to his elbow, exposing one bare side, modesty preserved only by black ladies’ briefs. “I tried doing fried eggs, and...” He presented Zira with the tray, which Zira took with a coo of delight, as Crowley propped the tray on its legs. “Well, scrambled eggs are good too,” Crowley said.

“Oh, Crowley, this is marvellous,” Zira cried, reaching past the breakfast tray to grasp Crowley’s cheeks, pulling him in for a long kiss. They broke apart with big smiles, and Zira beckoned, inviting Crowley to join him.

Crowley took off the robe and dropped it on the floor, crawling all but naked under the blankets, cuddling up to Zira and expecting an arm around his shoulders. Zira provided, giving Crowley a kiss on the forehead.

“You really do spoil me, you know,” Zira said, as Crowley stole a triangular slice of toast, slumped down against the headboard to eat it.

“Wurf ip,” Crowley said, resting his head on Zira’s ribs as Zira picked up his cutlery and started collecting food on the fork tines. “Jus’ like makin’ you make happy noises.”

“Mmmhm,” Zira sighed, eyes closed, shoulders slumping, a wide, content smile stretching across his face as he chewed. “Good Lord. It’s delicious, Crowley.”

“Worcestershire sauce, butter, and salt,” Crowley explained. “Makes anything taste better.”

Zira devoted himself to enjoying every drip, blob and morsel of the breakfast Crowley had cooked for him, from each browned scrap of the half-burned eggs to the oddly-toasted bread. Each collected bite included a slice pulled from one of the two long meat items, which Zira had to assume were sausages, but were an unusual colour, flavour, texture, and shape. He couldn’t imagine what Crowley had done to make them split, curl, and taste like that, but they were made with so much love that it was impossible not to enjoy them. If Zira pretended the dish was made up of newly-invented foods, and not things he was used to eating but made wrong, it was all perfectly lovely.

“Won’t you have some?” Zira offered, showing Crowley a forkful ready for him.

“Hm... Alright. _One_,” Crowley decided. “Just to see how it turned out.” He leaned up to eat what Zira offered. He chewed, starting to squint one eye. He swallowed, then looked accusingly at Zira. “Never knew you were such a good liar.”

“Liar?” Zira made an upset noise. “Crowley, I’m not lying, it’s scrumptious.”

“‘S burnt.”

“Yes?” Zira raised his eyebrows. “But it’s not dry; the sauce makes up for that. The charring gives it a nice outdoorsy flavour. Besides, I appreciate a little charcoal sometimes, it’s good for the stomach. Anathema says it’s a good poison antidote.”

“And if an enemy had poisoned your food that would be great. But the only person who poisoned _any_thing is me.” Crowley folded his arms, grumpy and disappointed.

“Think what you like, my dear, but food is food, and I enjoy it no matter what _your_ taste buds are telling you.” Zira leaned forward and kept on proving it, finishing off the whole meal, and even lifting the plate and licking up the tangy sauce for good measure, since nobody who judged people for that sort of thing was around. Zira sat back at last, patting his mouth with the napkin Crowley had put on the tray.

“Aah,” Zira sighed. He reached for the teapot and poured out two cups of tea. “Sugar?”

“Hm.”

Zira gave Crowley a kiss as he gave him his three-sugared tea. “Thank you, Crowley. I enjoyed that immensely.”

Even in the murky thralls of a good sulk, Crowley managed a helpless, soppy smile. He sipped his tea and huddled against Zira’s side.

Zira handed Crowley his own unsugared tea for a moment, getting up to put aside the tray and the tea, then got back into bed to drink.

Crowley sniffed in a breath. “Oh, Cook said to tell you there was an important letter for you downstairs.”

“Oh yes?”

“But don’t rush,” Crowley said hopefully, wriggling in the bed so his bare legs touched Zira’s. “Could stay here for another hour first? Just a small hour. A baby hour.”

Zira smiled at him, heart brimming with starlight. “Alright,” Zira agreed, kissing Crowley’s cheek. “Do you want me to read you the book?”

Crowley’s grin touched the rim of his teacup as he prepared to take a sip. “You _have_ to be sick of that thing by now.”

“Oh, not in the slightest.” Zira reached for the book, laying it on his lap, opening it out to the middle. “I’ll read my favourite part.”

“I thought it was _all_ your favourite part.”

“I’ve decided on a favourite part now,” Zira explained, putting on those little round glasses that Crowley kept describing as ‘cute’ whenever they were mentioned. Zira cleared his throat, and read slowly, clearly, and with mountains of care weighing down each syllable...

“_And Snake said unto Bird, lo, why hast thou done this to me? I am trapped here in thine nest, and I cannot slither away. I shalt never see ground again._

“_Indeed, said Bird. But is that such a terrible thing? Bird took Snake in the grasp of her talons and flew up, high in the bluest sky, above trees and rivers and the low, green world Snake once knew as home._

“_Thou art going to drop me to my death, art thou not? Snake postulated. She was aggrieved with fear and knew not whether to trust Bird, as to drop a snake was a bird’s most ancient nature._

“_No, Bird said. I will not drop you._

“_And as they flew and flew, and landed sometimes for safety, Snake came to realise that Bird was not trying to cause harm unto her, but help her._

“_Snake did not bite Bird. And Bird did not drop Snake. Instead they became close companions, and explored a familiar world in a way that was new to each of them. Every day they flew together, and grew to trust one another deeply._”

Crowley waited for the rest, waiting for the bit about Snake actually getting her legs, and taking Bird for walks along the ground, but Zira had stopped there.

“That’s your favourite bit?” Crowley asked, setting aside his tea. “Why?”

Zira shrugged. He finished his own tea, and put aside the cup, the book, and his glasses. “Reminds me of when this was all new.” He smiled, looking down at his hands in his lap, stroking the embroidered blanket. “It was very exciting, wasn’t it?”

Crowley harrumphed. “Is it not exciting now?”

“Oh, yes! Of course, don’t misunderstand. What we have is especially enjoyable now. I love all the little things you’re doing for me, I _adore_ how easy it all feels.”

“But?”

“There is no ‘but’! There was simply a certain thrill that came with... not knowing what was coming next, not knowing what all the feelings meant, being afraid to... to open up to you, yet finding myself compelled to spend time with you regardless, and having our intimacy become _endlessly_ rewarding, more so with each passing day.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, giving Zira a friendly nudge. “You just liked the tickling.”

“That too,” Zira agreed. He hummed briefly. “Haven’t done that in a while, now you mention it. Not _properly_, anyway, not for more than a few seconds. Rather a shame, really. Do you miss it? I miss it.”

Crowley gave him a long, affectionate look. Then he grinned and bit his lip – and lurched to touch Zira’s middle, fingers wriggling fast – but with a laughing yelp, Zira blocked him, already begging, “Oh, no-no-no, I’ve just eaten, darling, don’t, I couldn’t—”

So Crowley stopped.

Zira caught his breath, swallowing twice to calm down.

Then he looked sidelong at Crowley, who didn’t suspect a thing...

“Hah!” Zira wrapped Crowley in a cuddle, kissing his bare shoulder with smoochy, loud kisses and nuzzling him with a freshly-shaved chin; Crowley began to smile, reaching to stroke Zira’s hair over his shoulder – but then Crowley’s breath caught, and after a few uncertain seconds, he started to squirm, gasping, stretching out his neck for more.

“Ah? Auh—” Crowley melted into the touches, breaths unsteady; his body tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again.

“Doesn’t this tickle?” Zira whispered with a kiss, hoping his breath would ignite a round of giggles.

But Crowley just shook his head.

“Oh...” Zira sat back. “Maybe if I do _this_?” He dragged Crowley closer, fumbling at his middle.

Crowley did laugh, but it was a happy, affectionate chortle, not the spasmic shrieking Zira was expecting. Crowley’s slim hands slid over the backs of Zira’s and held on, fingers between fingers, a soft sigh of contentment drifting from Crowley’s throat.

“Are you not ticklish today?” Zira asked.

“Oh... I... I am,” Crowley said. “It just... it feels _nice_. Not tickly.”

“Nice-nice?” Zira asked. “Like... your special kind of nice?”

Crowley turned his head back to look at Zira. He hesitated, then said, casually, “Nice enough.”

Seeing the still-hopeful expectation in Zira’s eyes, Crowley surged forward in the bed, turning so his back flattened to the crumped sheets, arms thrown up to expose his fluffy underarms. He gave Zira an encouraging look, and Zira chirped happily, kneeling close, hands out to tickle Crowley with all the energy he had.

Crowley’s initial reaction was to snicker and roll away, kicking, but Zira rushed for him, tumbling over in the bed, bodies entwined. Zira rolled Crowley back again and pinned him down, skimming with palms and dancing with fingers, touching Crowley all over, from his hairy chest to the waistband of his briefs. The onslaught made Crowley arch in the bed, nearly screaming with laughter. “Zih— Zirah— Too much, too much, toomuchtoomuch-eeeEEE hee-hee-heee—!”

His cheeks were flushed pink already, breaths fast, trying to hide his face under the pale, tender side of an arm. Zira tickled again, and Crowley shut his eyes, mouth open wide; he seemed to cry out in silence...

Zira tried to get closer but Crowley rolled onto his front, fists in the sheets, shivering all over. He moaned into the bed as Zira rubbed his back then patted his buttocks. When Crowley only hummed, Zira put kisses one by one up the curve of Crowley’s spine, and followed each kiss with a swipe of his thumb, massaging – then, once Zira kissed the nape of Crowley’s back, his fingertips tickled Crowley’s hips.

Crowley again didn’t laugh; he pressed his hips to the bed in reaction, sighing.

“Still nothing?” Zira tutted. “Dear me. I suppose I’d better try harder.” He wriggled his fingers down Crowley’s spine, over the satin briefs, then to Crowley’s upper thighs.

“_Aoh!_” At last, Crowley gave a jerk, head up as he gasped; he rose a few inches from the mattress, nearly spread-eagled, forehead suddenly dropping to the bed to muffle his groan, “Zira...”

“Well, yes,” Zira smiled, setting each palm between Crowley’s inner thighs, rubbing there in circles. “Always the thighs. You are especially ticklish there, aren’t you.”

Crowley sobbed, bucking against the bed, one hand clutching at his now-ruffled hair, the other white-knuckled in a fist of bedsheets. He hissed, breathing deeply, letting out tiny, worried cries.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Zira paused, laying a concerned hand on Crowley’s back.

Crowley shook his head, a muffled hum of ‘no’ emerging from his hidden face.

Reassured, Zira ran a single finger down Crowley’s left thigh, surprised that Crowley closed his legs around that finger, entwined to the ankles as he writhed faintly, moaning.

Zira knelt over Crowley’s thighs and pushed his fingers between them, trying very, very hard to make him actually _laugh_. But Crowley wouldn’t. He trembled before Zira, his breaths erratic, soft sounds bleeding through the mattress and coming out low and droning.

Zira leaned all the way down, fingering Crowley’s hair away from one ear. Against that ear, Zira murmured, “You’re being a very difficult customer today, aren’t you?”

Crowley nodded, turning his head to peek halfway out, biting his lip. “Don’t stop.”

“I have no intention of stopping,” Zira said haughtily. “The point is to render you a helpless, sobbing mess, and I can’t do any of that if you won’t do so much as chuckle.”

Crowley managed a soft, “Hee,” at that, but it was decidedly unsatisfactory.

“I see I’ll have to up my game,” Zira decided, sitting beside Crowley again and sliding his hands allll the way down his legs, then back up. A naughty little idea occurred to Zira, and he dismissed it with a huff... but as Crowley lay in wait of contact, shifting softly at the hips in his anticipation, Zira’s idea resolved into a plan. He mentally begged for forgiveness... and...

He set his head down against Crowley’s thighs, and nosed between them, kissing the right one.

Crowley lifted his head with a shuddering gasp, immediately spreading his legs, begging, “Angel... Angel, please, pl... Oh... Again. Again, please—”

Zira shut his eyes and kissed again, open-mouthed, face hot with the thrill of this. He barely knew what he was doing or why, but he liked that Crowley’s breath shivered, that he seemed to tremble at the contact.

“Auhh,” Crowley moaned, squirming and rocking in the bed like never before. “Againagainagain,” he whispered. “Kiss me again.”

Zira knelt between his legs and sucked softly on the sensitive skin, his own body flaring with heat as Crowley keened desperately into the bed, all of him tense.

“Oh, shit, shit, shhh,” Crowley whispered, sobbing onto one arm. “Angel. Ahh—”

Zira secretly loved when Crowley swore. He gave his inner thigh a tiny lick, gratified when Crowley breathed, “Shhhitfuckfuckfuckfuhhh...”

But he still wasn’t _laughing_. Zira didn’t know what had changed; maybe Crowley had slept in an odd position and all his senses were dulled. And yet that theory didn’t hold up; if anything, he was _more_ responsive, _more_ reactive. His skin was searing against Zira’s cheeks, his entire form nudging into the bed like he was trying to crawl into it. Perhaps he was taking the ‘snake’ thing literally.

“Dear?” Zira tried tickling Crowley’s underarms, but Crowley slammed his arms tight to himself, fists in the sheets again; he whimpered, asking for something – but it was clear now it wasn’t _tickles_ he wanted. Zira rubbed his back, asking, “Dear, what do you want me to touch?”

“Thighs,” Crowley rasped, lips apart, eyes dark as he turned his head to catch Zira’s gaze. “The good bit right near the top.”

Zira let a hand stroke there, just skimming the plump dip where Crowley’s legs met and the silky black fabric of his briefs was all bunched up. Zira felt a flush of contentment when Crowley groaned, arms stretching up in the bed, hands wrapping around the foot post of the bed, wringing it tight.

Maybe he wasn’t laughing... but he was enjoying himself, that much was obvious. So Zira kept going, wondering what magical thing Crowley was experiencing that made him sweat like that, a sheen on his back, or what made him sound so upset despite asking for more in murmured half-sentences of affirmation.

Three weeks ago, Zira would have recoiled in embarrassment or shame if he’d realised Crowley was seeking pleasure from his hands. Some of that inclination remained – Zira doubted it would ever leave him, as he’d been averse to the idea for as long as he’d known people _could_ feel pleasure. He didn’t feel it himself. He didn’t _want_ to feel it, not really. It made him uncomfortable.

But this made it easier. He was starting to feel at ease with Crowley’s desire to explore his new and exciting feelings, and Zira was happy enough to help him explore.

Crowley had been right, after all. This _was_ like the first weeks they’d spent together. Tentative touches. Uncertain words. Finding new boundaries, learning about each other through intimacy. Although only Crowley was aroused, this was certainly not a one-sided experience. After he got the hang of it, Zira began to really enjoy touching him to elicit pleasure, fingers tracing new places on Crowley’s body he’d never touched before, at least not outside a caregiving capacity. He even tried poking fingers under the rump of Crowley’s briefs – and of all things, _that_ made him laugh. Zira chuckled happily. But then he wondered...

“Could I see you?” Zira asked, carefully. “If you roll over, perhaps...”

Crowley shook his head. “Nn-nn.”

“Are you embarrassed?”

Crowley shrugged, still pushing his hips to the bed.

“A little?”

Crowley nodded.

Zira swallowed. “I... I’m a tad nervous myself,” he admitted. “This is a bit scary, isn’t it?”

Crowley breathed wetly, letting out soft, breath-hitched moans with his face turned away.

“Crowley...?” Zira stopped stroking, holding Crowley’s waist. “I think... I-I think I want to see.”

Crowley went still. He nosed at the bed, recovering, gathering strength.

“Show me?” Zira asked. “I want to understand what’s happening to you.”

Crowley shifted his head. “You don’t know?”

“I...” Zira rolled a shoulder. “I have a vague idea. I never really... um. Well, it doesn’t happen to me.”

Crowley twisted his torso, up on his elbows to look back. Zira was shocked by how his pupils had dilated, yellow nearly engulfed by black. His lips were plump, his cheeks and neck and chest were pink with a pretty blush, and he looked at Zira in a way not dissimilar to how he usually looked, but there was something about his gaze that made Zira tingly all over. Zira hugged himself, smiling bashfully.

“You sure?” Crowley asked, softly.

Zira hesitated, twice, but then nodded. “I want to look.”

Crowley wet his lips, then prepared himself with a slow breath... He then rolled over, lying back, one hand in his hair, forearm hiding his face, the other holding his crotch protectively.

Zira’s eyes devoured the sight before him, heart racing, hands together on his lap. Crowley just looked like Crowley, which was reassuring enough. He’d heard tales where people in the thrall of lust became demonic monsters... and now he wondered why he’d ever believed that about Crowley. He was as frightened now as Zira was. But he was being so brave to show himself, just as Zira was brave to look.

Eventually Zira’s eyes went where he dreaded looking, and he was glad Crowley hid himself behind a hand.

“Is it...?” Zira asked, an uncertain hand moving halfway there, then dropping back. “Did it... happen?”

Crowley peeked out past his shielding arm. “Did what happen?”

Zira shrugged, hugging himself with his hands on his own shoulders. “You know... the... um...”

Crowley didn’t understand, and no wonder, without a hint to guide him. But he did the kindest thing: he sat up, shifted close, and sat with Zira, slowly removing the hand from in front of his crotch.

Zira tried looking down, lips parting. He couldn’t even see anything past the briefs.

Crowley was already looking at Zira when Zira looked at him.

“You can peek if you want,” Crowley said quietly. “It’s okay.”

“Oh— Oh, no, I couldn’t, that’s far too private, I wouldn’t dream of—”

Crowley gave Zira a long kiss on the lips, then eased back, smiling. “So don’t, then.”

Zira’s eyes darted down. “Is it— Is it going to stop, if I don’t look?”

Crowley shrugged. “Do you want to stop? We can stop.”

“No, no, I mean— Does it... disappear?”

Crowley’s brow wrinkled. “Angel, what the devil do you think is happening down there? It’s not a magic trick, it’s just biology. Nothing vanishes into thin air. Come on.” He took Zira’s hand and guided it close, touching it to his navel. “Just take a peek. It’s okay.”

Zira’s hand snatched back – but then returned, his breath shivering.

“I’ve never seen...” He sucked his lower lip. “I mean, obviously, I’ve seen you before, washing you and all that, but. I’ve never looked at—”

Crowley kissed his temple. “I know. Besides my own, I never have either. And I’ve never been looked at by someone else.” He pursed his lips. “New for both of us.”

Zira let out a shaking, hot breath. He leaned his head close, eyes drawn to the band of the briefs... With a single finger, he pried the band away from Crowley’s skin, and peered down...

He blinked.

Then he frowned. “That’s _it_?

"

Crowley snorted. “Um? Rude?!”

Zira laughed, sitting back. “No, I mean—” He was lightheaded with relief. “It looks normal. It’s just a bit fat.”

Crowley bit his lip, hugging his own knees now, trying to restrain his grin. “I literally cannot even begin to fathom what you thought you were going to find in there, angel.”

Zira covered his blushing cheeks with both hands. “I think maybe the boys at my school told me a lot of lies.”

“P’_chah_! You think?!”

Zira huffed a few more relieved laughs, leaning against Crowley as Crowley leaned in to nuzzle him. They rested their temples together, almost hugging but not quite.

“Has it really never happened to you?” Crowley asked, frowning a little. “Not even as teenager? Not even in the mornings?”

Zira shook his head.

“Huh.” Crowley arched his lips. “I thought it was involuntary.”

“Sometimes I’d wake up a bit sticky in my teenage years,” Zira admitted, sliding a hand into Crowley’s for comfort. “But I hated it so much that I think it just stopped for its own good. It’s been... _soft_ ever since.”

“Didn’t... feel even the slightest bit nice?”

Zira shook his head vehemently. “I absolutely _hated_ it. Nothing but an embarassing, uncomfortable nuisance.”

Crowley hummed. “What if... If you tried now, would it be different? With me?”

“No.” Zira gave Crowley a firm smile. “This is enough. Finding out what it feels like for you, that’s enough for me.”

Crowley nodded, head dipping low, eyes averted. “Okay.”

“How does it feel?” Zira asked. “Now?”

Crowley shrugged. “I liked it.”

“You don’t want to keep going?”

Crowley shook his head. “Nn-nh.”

“Why?”

Dragging in a long breath, Crowley searched the drapery over them for answers, then shrugged, exhaling, blasting sunlit dust away from him in coils. “It’s nice but it’s not my favourite thing to do with you.”

“Oh?” Zira smiled, rocking his side to Crowley’s thigh.

Crowley caught Zira’s chin, tipped it close, and they kissed, slowly, heads tilted, parting ways only with a satisfied sigh.

“Plus,” Crowley said, head down, “it is scary.”

“You didn’t seem very scared.”

“I was.” Crowley looked at Zira’s hands, then flicked a solemn stare up to his face. “It’s... a very... vulnerable thing to feel. At least for me. I almost feel like recoiling half the time. Then laughing just to... to pretend it’s funny.”

“Oh...”

Crowley shrugged hard. “But you like tickling me. So.”

“Oh, Crowley, if you want me to do something else, I can—”

Crowley shushed him. “Angel, it’s fine. It’s fine. I just wish I could enjoy your hands on me without... feeling this. It happens whenever you touch me now and I wish it wouldn’t.”

Now Zira was the one to lean close, touching Crowley’s hair, tucking it behind his ear to soothe him. “I thought you liked it.”

“I do. But like I said.” Crowley gulped. “Not my favourite thing.”

Zira held him for a while, both considering all that had been discussed.

“Tell you what,” Zira decided, “Next time, you tickle _me_. Tickle me to your heart’s content. Then it _can’t_ turn into anything else.”

A big, slow smile spread across Crowley’s face. “Okay,” he said, in a small voice.

Zira wrapped his arms around Crowley’s head and kissed his ear. “Okay, my dear. Hm... Mmm. You smell like burnt toast.”

Crowley smirked, then said, yellow eyes glinting in the sunlight, “Our hour’s not up yet.”

“And what do you propose we do in that hour?”

Crowley shifted in the bed, lying down properly with his head on a pillow, arms open for a cuddle.

“A mighty fine suggestion,” Zira said, joining him, kissing his neck. “Mighty fine, my dear.”

  


**♔**

  



	19. The Invitation

The family laughed more often these days. Accepting Crowley as one of their own was only a first step. After Christmas there followed a quiet period, wherein he settled into feeling cared for, and appreciated for his kindness and slightly acetic personality rather than his glorious achievements, which was all new for him.

Then, around January 12th – a Monday, or maybe a Thursday – the teasing began.

It took him a week, and three visits from the children before he allowed Zira to convince him it was all in good fun, and ‘Evil Stepmother’ was a nickname born of love and trust, and not the opposite.

By today, January 18th, Crowley even smiled when Brian casually threw out the moniker and asked Crowley to please pass the gravy.

Crowley pretended to spit in the gravy before he passed it along, making all the children scream, then fall about laughing.

Zira tutted, still cutting up his fish filet with his knife and fork. “Don’t be such a tease, dear.”

Crowley chewed his food, grinning throughout. His yellow eyes were alight with mischief, although it was tempered by fondness, shooting Brian a wink when he pondered the gravy, trying to see if it was really contaminated.

“So what was in the letter?” Anathema asked, trying not to smile in case it encouraged any more crude luncheon banter. “Zira?”

Zira took a few seconds to drag his eyes off Crowley. “Hm? Pardon?”

“I heard there was an important letter waiting for you.”

“OH!” Zira dropped his knife and fork on his plate, startling the whole family, and almost making Bertha jump out of her skin – she slopped white wine on the tablecloth near Crowley. “Oh, my apologies, I— Bertha, would it be alright if I asked you to run down to the kitchens and see where that letter got to? I must say it completely slipped my mind.” He smiled slowly, warmly, as Bertha curtseyed and rushed off, taking the wine with her.

“Ahh...?” Crowley reached longingly for the alcohol, but it was gone already.

Zira kept on smiling, sliding his own glass over to Crowley. “I’ll admit I was... kept very distracted this morning.”

He and Crowley shared a secretive look, eyes darting apart before anyone asked what they’d been doing together. Some things were far too intimate to mention in company, even if the whole household knew they were romantically involved. _Whatever_ they did together was demonstrably illegal.

The family went back to eating, talking about wet boots and Adam’s new haircut and the fact the snow was _still_ here, smothering this part of England for what was now closing in on a fourth month.

“If we don’t see daffodils around here soon I’ll start looking into how to lift a witch’s curse,” Anathema said, half-joking.

“Can people actually do that?” Wensley said. “Curse a place into eternal winter?”

“There’s plenty of forces at work that we don’t understand yet,” Anathema said kindly. “Maybe there’s something we as a society are doing that’s... _affecting_ how things are, changing the weather. But is it magic? Probably not. Just might _look_ like it.”

“Tadfield’s magic,” Adam said, munching on a gravy-laden parsnip. “We’ve got daffodils in our back garden.”

“In all the back gardens, actually,” Wensley said. “Jasmine Cottage even has tulips.”

Anathema smiled. “Spring can’t be too far off now.”

“Ah, Bertha!” Zira stood halfway out of his chair, hand on the backrest. He ducked slightly in thanks as Bertha offered him his letter on a silver tray. “Oh-ho-ho,” Zira added, sitting down. “What can this be, then?”

“Blue envelope,” Anathema noted. “Gabriel...?”

Zira opened the envelope with reverence, sliding out the card from within. It glittered in the afternoon light from the conservatory ahead and shone in the firelight from behind.

“_Sir Zira Fell_,” Zira read, his voice tiptoeing on each word, brimming with held-back excitement, “_You are invited to the Winter Ball_— Yes!” Zira sat up straight, holding the card in both hands.

“Told you it would come,” Anathema smiled. She frowned. “Cutting it a bit close, though, isn’t it? Two days left... Must’ve gotten lost in the post.”

Zira hadn’t heard her – he was reading ahead, mouth skimming the shape of each word. It took him an unusually long time to read three lines, and Anathema realised there was more written in his invitation than in hers.

“Th-They want...” Zira’s beaming expression had fallen to dread. “Gabriel wants me to... bring my fiancée.”

Anathema grimaced, inhaling through her teeth. “Eeech.”

“What’s a fee-onss-say?” Brian asked.

Pepper, ripping up a bread roll, replied, “It’s the person he’s going to marry.”

The children all looked at Crowley, who, to their surprise, seemed to have withdrawn from the table, slumped back in his chair, nursing his wine with his eyes down.

“That’s lucky they invited Zira’s fiancée, then,” Adam chirped. “Otherwise Crowley wouldn’t get to go at all. If the whole Ball thing wasn’t a big excuse to raise money for the war and probably start a battle, _I_ might’ve wanted to go.”

“Same,” Pepper said. “But _I’d_ go without a date. It’s more progressive that way.”

“Hon?” Anathema asked Zira, who’d gone too quiet. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Even – like Pepper said, you could go alone.”

“Alone?” Adam sat forward. “Why would he go alone?”

“I most certainly _won’t_ be going alone,” Zira said. “Gabriel specifically wrote and asked me to bring my fiancée. The woman I— I’ve been telling people I’m engaged to for the last ten years. The woman I’ve been _lying_ about – God help me, _why_ did I _do_ this to myself?! Gabriel— He-He, um. He wants to meet her. For God’s sake, it’s _Gabriel_. He’s the right hand – nay, the right _arm_ of the Resistance. I can’t refuse him. If he invites my fiancée, I _take_ my fiancée. Even if she’s naught but a figment.”

“Crowley can go,” Pepper said, looking between them. “Obviously. You’re _basically_ betrothed.”

Anathema gave Pepper a sweet smile. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, honey.”

Pepper folded her arms. “Why not? _I_ think it’s ridiculous that people have to get married before anyone takes them seriously. Especially _girls_.”

“It’s not about that,” Anathema explained. “It’s—” She glanced nervously at Zira, then back to Pepper. “It’s more about the fact that Zira and Crowley are on opposite sides. This is a Resistance gathering, and even if there is a danger of the Black Knights showing up uninvited, it’s incredibly bad manners to invite one on purpose. Even an ex-Knight.”

“So?” Pepper’s eyes were starting to flame. “Going there together would _prove_ it’s all bullshit.”

“Pepper!” Wensley whispered. “Language...”

Anathema’s smile was starting to strain. “It’s not just that, either. It’s. Um. They both look a certain way. People know them as... as men. I know none of us here think it’s strange but not everyone in the world is so enlightened.”

“Crowley’s a woman sometimes, nowadays,” Pepper said. “Can’t she just – _be_ a woman? Put on a dress and do the voice?”

Anathema shot Crowley a glance. Crowley cocked his head, arching his lips, in a ‘well? that’s not a bad idea’ sort of way.

Anathema looked to Zira, who’d gone pale, his face long, his lips parted and his eyes unfocused.

“I did this to myself,” Zira rasped, voice pitched high and on edge. “Evil always contains the seeds of its own destruction. How naive could I be? What damage could it do, I thought? What wrong could possibly come of a tiny lie like that? That poor girl doesn’t need to know why I don’t find her attractive. Nobody need know the real reason I’m unmarried at forty, forty-five, fifty. And even now! Now, what’s the harm, what part of my life wouldn’t be made _better_ by perpetuating the same well-established falsehood? Nobody ever needs find out I’m in love with someone who isn’t a—” His eyes shot to Crowley, then down. “Well. _Someone_, in any case. It should’ve been a safe lie.” He sighed, defeated. “I should’ve known this was coming. No... No, I _did_ know. I just prayed it wouldn’t come.”

“If you really think it’s too dangerous...” Anathema waited for Zira’s response.

Zira nodded. “I’m not dragging Crowley into that situation. The Black Knights want him dead. If the Resistance knew he’d spent so much time with us, they would almost certainly want the same.”

“So then,” Anathema drummed the table with her fingers, “I could find you a stand-in? A nice lady. Find someone... or pay someone? There’s a lot of women who’d pose as your partner for a fee.”

Crowley huffed loudly. But Anathema didn’t look at him, her attention on Zira. Zira looked up, considering it. Hire someone... to be his fiancée...

“I know a woman,” Anthema said. “A bit older than you, but wouldn’t look out of place next to you. She cuts my hair, and has a few more irregular jobs on the side. She’s... kind of a bit mad – but isn’t everyone?”

Zira nibbled his lip, thinking. “I... Oh, I don’t know, this is so difficult. As it is, I don’t even have enough to pay the exorbitant ‘donation’ for my entry. We all know it’s hardly a donation. God only know where I’d get that kind of money, let alone enough to compensate your hairdresser for risking her life. For all we know we could be walking into the site of the next great battle, the one they’ll write about in history books for years to come.” He started to shake his head. “No. No, I shan’t do it. Ten years is enough. And I’m not dragging some poor, innocent woman into my web of deceit. These are my own mistakes coming back to haunt me, and I should own up to my lies.” He stood firm on that for a moment, then wavered. “Or, at the very least, tell people my fiancée and I broke up.”

“Oorrrrr,” Crowley said, leaning forward, the base of his wine glass rolling along the tablecloth, fingers twisting the upper rim, “You could forget about all of it and just do the obvious thing.” He gave Zira a long, unfaltering stare. “Take me.”

“Crowley, no, you’re being ridiculous,” Zira snapped, throwing his napkin onto his plate. “I can’t take you. I’ve been causing enough scandal as it is, showing up to events _without_ someone for a full decade, and now I’m on the cusp of having people find out I’m utterly broke – so do you really think I can afford to take you as my date? I’d be ruined. Even if you _were_ dressed as a woman, and we disguised every possible aspect of your name, backstory, presentation, and personality – more lies, dare I point out – you’re still you, Crowley, under it all, under the dress, under the makeup, under whatever elaborate pretense you care to concoct. Your tattoo is still there on your face, plain as day. Your name and title remain Sir A. J. Crowley, Knight of Mayfair. You are still biologically male. And last but not least, you are not _actually_ my fiancée. And if anyone – _anyone_ found out about _any_ of those things – say, if Wignall got back to the Mouth of Hell, which he almost certainly did – Crowley, they would _destroy you_. And I— Oh, darling, I care too _much_ about you to let that happen.” Zira shook his head, on the verge of tears. “Don’t make me _take_ you.”

Crowley averted his eyes. He sank back. His lips pressed together, his hand clenched around his own napkin. The children looked at him, upset, and Zira looked away, upset.

Then Crowley gritted his jaw, tossed down his own napkin, and snarled, “What difference would it make whether I go with you and die, or die here? What am I going to be for the rest of my life? Your pet? Here? Is this all I have to look forward to? Can’t go _outside_ without someone trying to kill me. Can’t look out of the _window_ anymore. It’s a very nice, big, expensive prison, I’ll admit, and the food’s to die for, but it’s still a prison. I haven’t seen daylight in a _month_. If the Resistance wins the war, what am I then? I’ll live the rest of my life as prey for the Witchfinders. I’ll never be safe. Never. If the Knights win – how can I return to a society that supports those bastards? I wouldn’t want to, would I? This is all I have to look forward to. This house. Alone. Without you.”

“With_out_—?”

“You’re going to die,” Crowley said slowly, glaring at the table, “because of some trap the Knights set, at some stupid, fancy Winter Ball where I didn’t even get to dance with you first.” He looked at Zira. “And when that happens, I am going outside and walking until someone _stops_ me.”

Anathema didn’t understand at first – but Zira’s face fell. “Crowley...” He sounded distraught, not angry. “Crowley, how _dare_ you threaten something like that. And in front of the children—”

“I’ll say it in front of anyone, angel,” Crowley replied, voice dark and calm and scary. “I love you more than anything in this Godforsaken world. If you die, then I’m going with you. Even if death comes at my own hand.”

“Crowley—” Zira had never looked more shocked, mouth open, eyes wide. He stood up, hands on the table. “No. No! I will not stand for this kind of talk. We’re discussing this in the hallway, in private. Up. _Now._ Come with me.”

Crowley got up, but stayed there.

Zira, fuming, turned back to him. “I said come _on_.”

Crowley trembled.

Zira tutted. “Oh, what now?”

Crowley bit his lip, a hand sliding to cover his mouth. His fingers shook. “Angel... No... Oh, Satan, no, I’m sorry, I’m— It came out... That wasn’t what I—”

Anathema reached to touch Crowley’s side, but he wrenched away, hiding his face.

Zira hesitated, but then went to him, taking his waist. “Crowley?” he asked. “Are you... all right?”

Crowley shook his head. He shook it again, then rested his forehead on Zira’s shoulder. He started to cry.

Zira looked worriedly at Anathema, but then shut his eyes, rubbing Crowley’s back.

“S-Something in my head,” Crowley whispered, “just... flipped. Went dark. I don’t know. I didn’t mean it. That was a wretched thing to say, angel. To anyone. I didn’t mean any of it. For a horrible moment I did mean it, but— I don’t want that. I don’t want to die. I wouldn’t do that to our family. I’m so sorry.” He collapsed to his chair, head on the edge of the table. He thumped it there softly, thump, thump.

Zira crouched by his side, rubbing his shoulder. Then he scowled and slid his palm between the table and Crowley’s head.

Crowley rested his head in Zira’s hand, calming down.

“I... I did,” Crowley said wetly, sniffing as he sat up. “I did mean one thing.”

“Which part?” Zira asked, holding Crowley’s hand.

“That I love you.” Crowley sniffed, trying to pretend he wasn’t an emotional wreck. “And that I...” His lips wobbled, and seemed to draw into the saddest, most distorted smile Anathema had ever seen. “I maybe nrrh-rhn-r-really want to go to the Ball with you.”

“That’s what this is about?” Zira asked, with a quick sigh. “You’re suicidal over a silly party?”

“It didn’t seem silly a minute ago,” Crowley whispered, wiping his face on his hands, then his nose on his jacket sleeve. “I like parties. I like going outside. And you were taking some stranger, another woman, and not _me_, and I... I don’t know...”

“Ohhh,” Zira sighed, standing up, cradling Crowley’s head in his arms. He smacked a kiss to his hair. “You got jealous.”

Crowley harrumphed.

Zira rocked him for a moment, then leaned back, looking him in the eye. “I understand why you felt that, Crowley. I really do. But you know—”

“Taking someone else would be to protect me, yeah,” Crowley nodded. He hugged himself, looking down. “Still hurt.”

“I’m sorry.” Zira kissed Crowley’s forehead. Then he added, in a fresh breath, “You’re not really going to hurt yourself, are you?”

Crowley shook his head. Then he hesitated, and added, “I never want to. I know it’s... bad. But.” He wet his lips. “Still think about it. Not even on purpose. Just – pops into my head. And it’s like having a mouse in there, scuttling around, can’t find it, but it’s chewing through baseboards and making nests in tender places. I know it’s a pest but it’s just... it _lives_ there. Whenever something rattles me I see it scurry across the floorboards. Other times I think I’m happy, I think I’m great, but I’ll still find that bastard mouse gnawing the cheese. You know? Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s the mouse in control, or me. Like now. All that stuff I snapped at you, angel, that was the mouse. I’m scared to death of losing you – and the dirty bastard took that cheese and _ran_ with it.”

“My mum had mice in the kitchen, once,” Wensleydale said. “She said, actually, they were very hard to get rid of.”

“Shh,” Pepper said, elbowing Wensley.

Crowley managed a small, real smile, hearing the kids’ voices. He wiped his face one more time, then looked past Zira to meet the childrens’ eyes in turn. “Sorry,” he said to them. “I guess even grown-ups throw tantrums sometimes.”

“You’ll grow out of it,” Pepper said cheekily.

Crowley gave her a long look. “I damn well hope so,” he said, seriously. He looked at Zira, then Anathema, then at his own hands. “It _has_ been easier these last few months. It’s a bit up-and-down, but I think it’s... getting better. Slowly.” He nodded, and looked back at Pepper, mind made up. “You’ve been helping. All of you.” He looked around, then shrugged. “A lot. Buh... Before I knew you, I could never pull myself together when I was ‘having a moment’. It would just keep getting worse and worse until...” He drew an uncomfortable breath. “Well. You know how you found me.”

_...How you found me..._

Snow. Church steeple. Black armour. Blood.

Anathema lowered her eyes. All at once, she understood: this wasn’t just a random outburst from Crowley, it was an episode amidst of a long history of self-destructive anguish. Anathema had never seen him fall apart like this, but at the same time, the fact he was showing his despair rather than hiding it; talking about it, openly, with all of them... surely that showed massive improvement. Crowley was working to heal his sickness. Now Anathema knew what manner of disease he was fighting, she wondered if she might be able to help. Her ancestors’ herbiary book had secrets untold, including things to help a darkness-addled mind. God, she wished he’d talked sooner. But she couldn’t complain. This was a start.

“You’d better come back from the Ball in one piece,” Adam said to Crowley. “Otherwise it’ll be really hard for us to keep helping you.”

Crowley smirked, head down.

Anathema shot the kids a thankful look, reminding herself to praise them on their maturity later. Seeing someone they cared about having a breakdown was a tough thing to witness, and they’d not only seen it through to its loving resolution, but helped Crowley get there. They deserved tiny medals, just as Crowley did.

Zira touched Crowley’s cheek, then went to get his own chair.

He pulled it up next to Crowley’s, and sat, holding his hand.

“Darling?” Zira said. “Are you okay to keep talking about the Ball?”

Crowley nodded.

“Alright. Um... Let’s see... We only have two days to prepare – which is quite a big ask, but the letter did come late, so it can’t be helped... Anyhow, there’s all sorts to figure out. Clothes, hair, transport – and the money— Oh, the money—”

“I’ve got it,” Anathema said quickly, reaching to pat Zira’s hand. “Your ‘donation’? It’s covered. And whatever you need to buy or have made beforehand. New outfits, a haircut – it’s all on me. It’s no problem.”

Zira gave his friend the most grateful of looks. “Thank you,” he breathed. He nodded, secure with that knowledge. Then he went on, to Crowley, “I was thinking... All threats aside, my dear, you did make one good point. The Ball _is_ a dangerous destination for any of us. And I _would_ be much better attending with a date who knows how to throw a punch. Or a javelin.”

“‘M better at darts, honestly,” Crowley uttered. “But I’m good with a dagger.”

“We would have to go armed, of course,” Zira went on. “No doubt every attendee would carry a weapon. Potentially we’d all be too suspicious of each other for anyone to notice who you are. Or how unspeakably traitorous I am for falling so hopelessly in love with you.”

As Zira was talking, Crowley seemed to brighten up from the inside out. At the end of that final sentence, he sat with confidence squaring his shoulders, a smile wrinkling his eyes.

“We’d be fiancées,” Crowley said, jauntily. “Sort of.”

After a moment of consideration, Zira found he liked the taste of that idea. “Fiancées,” he said, a word that lifted a smile on his lips. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

Crowley started to grin. “‘S not so bad, once you get used to it.”

Zira registered what he meant, and his face fell.

But Crowley winked back. Somehow he, like the children, was able to joke about his situation. Zira flicked his eyes to the ceiling, smiling again. But in any case, he held Crowley’s hand just a little bit tighter.

  


**♔**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next set of chapters will be posted after Christmas 2019. Please tell me what you think so far! Are you enjoying this? What do you think is gonna happen?? Share with me your thoughts :O  
(Also, merry Christmas~)  
Elmie x


	20. Hair Truth

Wignall’s dagger lay innocently on the table in the living room. The cold light of late morning edged the silver blade with the weakest of golds, but even the goodness of the sunshine could not turn this poison to elixir. Crowley could not reach for it. He didn’t care to know the shape of the weapon in his hand, not again.

He turned his head away, then shook it. No.

Zira nodded. “That’s all right. We’ll find you something else.”

Crowley wrapped his arms around himself. “What if...”

“Hm?”

“Angel, what if... we went unarmed. No weapon.”

“No protection, you mean?”

“No means of attack,” Crowley corrected. “We’d be harmless. No threat to anyone.”

Zira blinked, failing to understand.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Crowley said. “I don’t even— The _threat_ of hurting someone, I can’t stand it. Why carry a weapon if I have no intention of using it?”

It came as a great surprise to Crowley, but Zira began to grin. “Oh, Crowley,” he said, warmly. He put a kiss on Crowley’s cheek, then swept away. “Come along! Madame Tracy will be here any second now.”

“So— Wait— The dagger—”

“If you’re unarmed, I’m unarmed,” Zira said, unbuttoning his waistcoat, his back to Crowley as he lay the waistcoat over the arm of the sofa. “Have we taken leave of our senses? Almost certainly, my dear. But I haven’t hurt anyone in all my life, and I won’t be starting tonight.”

“You mean, you haven’t hurt anyone, _besides_ when you burned through your entire inheritance to keep people fighting a war. A war which kills people.”

Zira took a distressed breath. “Well, that’s over with, now, isn’t it,” he said, undoing his cufflinks. He fiddled with them twice, then huffed in frustration and flared out his hands, curling them into fists.

Crowley went to him, hand on his shoulder.

Zira sagged, looking hangdog at Crowley. “We’ve both done equally terrible things, haven’t we? Just because I’ve never set foot on a battlefield doesn’t mean my hands are clean. I only hope... now... once things have changed... and I make my repairs, God could see Her way to forgiving me my sins.”

Crowley thought that laughable, but then supposed God probably adored Zira. An angel like him was hard not to forgive.

For the first time since he was a child, Crowley wondered if... maybe? God might forgive him too.

That would be pretty nice.

  


**♔**

  


When Anathema had suggested her hairdresser was someone who wouldn’t look out of place next to Zira, Crowley had expected to see them as a matching set. He’d envisioned a dumpy, round-faced, happy-go-lucky middle-aged lady with a handwriting fetish and probably six cats, or a parakeet.

The funny thing was, he wasn’t too far off. Madame Tracy was exactly that person. Red-haired, maybe not her real hair; pale, softly wrinkled; dressed in wispy, colour-drenched robes and dangling gold jewellery...

Except?

She was absolutely covered in tattoos. There were ankhs on her cheeks like tears, and Eyes of Horuses (Hori?) sweeping from her own eyes. The cartilage of her ears were lined with what looked like Latin, and there was Arabic on her neck, and stars on her fingers, and a laughing sun in one palm and a sleeping moon in the other. Her arms were exposed to her elbows, and Crowley could barely tilt his head enough to see it all without getting a crick in his neck. The woman was like a walking symposium of symbology. He’d bet anything there were more tattoos where he couldn’t see, and didn’t care to see.

“And I said to him, I said,” Madame Tracy said, wagging a finger as she dug around for her haircutting tools in her belt, “you take your blasted Thundergun out of my face, you great ninny, and what did he say? He called me the _Hoor of Babylon_ and said almighty vengeance will rain upon me for my Devil-worship, and I said, well that’s all very nice dear, but I do have an ten-thirty appointment with Miss Device there, so if it’s all right with you—”

Zira was sitting on his footstool in just his shirt and breeches, hands on his lap. He waited for someone to cut his hair.

“Anyway,” Tracy said, finding scissors and giving them a few testing snippa-snippa-snips. “He’s still lurking around out there. God only knows what he’s looking for. No Black Knights here, that’s for certain.”

Where he stood leaning on the sideboard, Crowley’s fingers crept up to cover his sword tattoo. His stomach churned. Tracy would see once she came to cut his hair. And Crowley was scared of anyone who wielded scissors with so much flamboyance.

“You are cutting it quite close for comfort, aren’t you,” Madame Tracy said, zipping and snipping at Zira’s hair. “Barely even five hours to the Ball!”

“Lady Anathema said this was the first appointment you were available for a home visit,” Zira said.

“Oh, yes,” Tracy nodded. “I have all sorts of clients, I’m kept very busy. Gentlemen callers, of course, all most discerning sorts. That’s every evening except Thursdays. All my afternoons are booked up – Drawing Aside the Veil, and that.”

“What Veil would that be, then?”

“To the Other Side, love.”

“Ah.”

“You’ve very lucky to have caught me today, dear,” Tracy said. “I never recommend haircuts so close to a big event.”

Zima hummed. “Unfortunately, the timing was through no fault of our own; my invitation came quite late. Anathema received hers months ago.”

“And you say the invite was from a Duke? How odd. Dukes don’t seem the sort to let letters come late.”

“Well,” Crowley croaked from his side of the room, “there’s always the possibility you were an afterthought.”

“_Crow_ley,” Zira chided.

Now Tracy had noticed Crowley properly, all long legs and red hair and sunglasses, she gave him a smile. “Who are you, then, love?”

“Oh, that’s Crowley,” Zira said. “He’s my... friend. Best friend.”

“Lovely.” Tracy winked a Horus eye, then got back to measuring her snips, taking off little flecks of platinum blonde. “You’ll be that second customer, then?”

“That’s me.” Crowley approached, swaying, hands in his pockets. “Question: do you do curls?”

“All sorts.”

“Do you put hair up in ribbons?”

“Find me an ugly ribbon and maybe I’ll say no.”

Crowley grinned, perching on the edge of the sofa, watching the haircut in session. “Do you provide occult protection for the damned?”

Madame Tracy nodded. “Be a bit extra, though, love.”

“Anathema’s got it,” Crowley said, before Zira could do anything with that breath he’d inhaled. “She’s a very generous woman.”

“That she is,” Madame Tracy said. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of money she offered me just to keep the goings-on at this appointment private. Can’t imagine why. Just two nice, handsome gentlemen after a sprucing-up. What’s so private about that?”

Crowley smiled, chin to his chest. It was only a matter of time...

“So,” Tracy said brightly, “tell me about this Ball, then! Bet you’re going there to meet the llllaaay-deees. Never know, might be a princess among them.”

Zira turned his head just a little, giving Crowley a smile. “Dare say there are.”

“Head front, love,” Tracy said, straightening Zira up. “Wouldn’t want to take an ear off.”

While Tracy primped Zira, Crowley’s eyes drifted to the black corseted ballgown on a clothes hanger, hung from the picture rail, a few feet from the fire. He stared at it, not sure what he was feeling.

“So whose dress is that, then?” Tracy asked, inevitably noticing the focus of Crowley’s attention. “Never would’ve thought of Anathema wearing black. Oh, no, is it a mourning dress, did she lose someone—?”

“No, no, no,” Zira said hurriedly, as Tracy whacked loose hair off the back of his neck with a towel. “Nothing like that.”

“Your date, then?” Tracy said. “She must be a very tall girl. Very handsome.”

Crowley smiled when he heard Zira’s chuckle. “She is that,” Zira said.

“I was courted by a very tall gent, one time,” Tracy said. “Back in Egypt.” She turned back and lifted the hem of her dress, showing Crowley her bare ankle, making him look away in alarm. “He gave me that tattoo, very talented fellow. Taught me how to use the needle, too. I got quite good at it, ‘s a matter of fact. Never go anywhere without my tattoo kit. Never know when you might need an emergency protection sigil. Half these doodles I did myself.”

Intrigue tickled across Crowley’s chest. “You have it now? Your tattoo kit?”

“Oh yes!”

Crowley’s lips parted. “Hhhhow much for a tattoo?”

Madame Tracy paused her scissors to look at Crowley. “You’ll be wanting one? Whereabouts?”

Crowley rolled a shoulder. “Little one. Just, um.” He wriggled a finger near his cheek. “Cover up an old... scar.”

Zira stared over his shoulder. “Crowley... You can’t be serious. It’s five hours until the Ball.”

“If not now, then when?” Crowley asked, hands spreading. “She’s here, she’s got the stuff.”

“Your friend’s right, love,” Tracy warned Crowley. “You’ll be left very sore, and bleeding, and it won’t be a pretty sight at a party.”

“Trust me,” Crowley said. “It’ll be prettier than what’s there now.” He turned his head so she could see.

Tracy gasped – and it was a miracle she stabbed neither herself nor Zira, as her scissors jerked in shock. Soon, her face steadied, and she nodded, apparently registering that Crowley wanted the tattoo gone because he wanted to distance himself from his history with the Knights. She gave him a soft smile. “Let’s say the bill for that one’s on me.”

Crowley started to smile. “Thanks.”

“Nooowww I understand why this appointment has to stay private,” Tracy said. She gave Crowley a wink. “Your secret’s _completely_ safe with me.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Zira said. “Did you hear that, my dear? Anathema really does pick the best people. I barely even miss my regular barber now!”

“Uh-huh. Sure, angel. Let’s see you come up from Westminster to see Madame Tracy every morning when you want a wet shave.”

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t still see him. It’s just nice, that’s all. Being around people we can let our guard down with. My barber’s nice but he was _definitely_ the sort of person I told about my made-up fiancée.”

After a minute more spent on Zira’s hair, Tracy’s eyes turned to the dress hung on the wall... She stared at it for a bit, a spark of understanding firing in the back of her mind.

Then she looked down at Zira, sitting in front of her, who was rubbing perfumed lotion into his hands.

Then she looked at Crowley, who was absent-mindedly curling his hair around a finger, nibbling his lip to plump it... and Tracy smiled.

“Correction,” she said pleasantly. “Your secret_s_ are safe. Not a word to anyone, you sweethearts. ‘Best friends’ indeed. You’re all that and more, aren’t you?”

“Oh!” Zira chirped. “Gosh.”

Crowley smirked. “I’m starting to think the world’s not as bad as I thought.”

Madame Tracy tutted. “You don’t know the world, then, love. No,” she added, seriously, “Trust a Lady of the Night to keep a secret. Especially when it comes to things... well, things a tad outside the norm.” She glanced at Crowley then said, “That tall gal in Egypt who taught me to tattoo. Did I say she was a gent? My mistake.” She winked – and Crowley reeled, his smile widening to a grin.

Soon Madame Tracy set aside her scissors, and ran her hands through Zira’s hair, brushing out the strays, checking it was all even. “I think that’s you done. Take a look, dear?”

Zira took the looking-glass that Crowley handed him. He smiled at his reflection, then nodded. “You know,” he said, “I think Crowley’s right. If I’m moving out of Westminster anyway, I’d hardly be seeing my barber anymore...” He swivelled on his footstool, looking hopefully up at Tracy. “Any chance you have space for another regular in your busy schedule?”

Tracy wiped down all her tools, smiling. “I’m sure I could squeeze you in.”

She looked over at Crowley. “Now! What do you have in mind? A trim, was it? And pretty curls?”

Crowley’s eyes lowered to Zira. He’d been so sure – _so_ sure... but now, so close to it all, stepping out in public... he wasn’t sure anymore.

Zira folded up the towel that had been draped on his shoulders. He stood, brushed himself down, then went to Crowley, looking at him carefully.

“What’s worrying you?” he asked.

Crowley wet his lips, head to one side. He stroked his long hair with one hand, shrugging. “Thing is,” he said, too uncertain about his wants to speak them clearly, “whatever way we show up tonight, angel... we’re going to be in danger. We tell the truth, we lie, it’s all the same. Everyone there is our enemy.”

“No... No, it’s the Resistance, Crowley, they’re—”

“Zira, you’re no more one of them than I am,” Crowley said. “You hate what they do. You support them because you’re ‘supposed’ to.”

Zira took a breath, but couldn’t argue.

“We’re not on _their_ side. You and me?” Crowley said, taking Zira’s hands, “We’re on our own side.” He forced a half-smile. “And no matter which way you look at it, we’re in everyone’s bad books. So.” He gulped. “What I want to know,” he said, stroking Zira’s hand with a thumb, “is whether we show up living a lie, being the perfectly affluent Baronet and the delicate, ladylike fiancée everyone’s expecting. Or.” Crowley shrugged. “We go in as _us_. As we are. I can still stand in as that fiancée you need, but... it’s me, nobody else.”

Zira realised this for what it was: a final offer to shed himself of a haze of guilt he’d been wearing for a decade, if not longer. He hated to lie. He hated to hide. And Crowley was right – the truth would hardly put them in more danger, given how fragile the situation already was. And, really, Zira wanted to see Crowley be himself, in all his brash, sometimes elegant, sometimes awkward, gender-fluid real-person glory, not someone Zira had invented to check all the boxes of people’s expectations.

But... He’d lied for a reason. He’d hidden his secrets for a reason. It wasn’t just to protect himself from being ridiculed or outcast from high society now. The stakes were higher. Crowley’s _life_ hung in the balance. One perfect, beautiful night together wasn’t worth losing everything... was it?

They both turned as they saw a shadow cross their light. Winnie was there, looking worried. She smiled. “Came here to ask you both a favour. Couldn’t help overhear, and thought this might be the moment to ask.”

“A favour?” Zira asked. “Something about the Ball?”

Winnie nodded hard. “You have to— You have to show people how two sides can find common ground like you two have.” She looked at Madame Tracy, and explained, almost begging, “People are just fighting to stop the other side, but out of anger about what’s come before, not _hope_ for what’s coming after. It’s revenge after revenge after revenge, chaos masquerading as strategy – and there’s no need for it. It can end. It has to end.”

“Don’t have to tell _me_, love,” Tracy said, hands up. “You think I’d be working six jobs if every other commoner lady I knew wasn’t off decoding enemy messages and doing sexpionage?”

Winnie shook her head and turned back to Zira and Crowley. “Both sides might be at this Ball. And you’re living examples of peace, now, aren’t you? At least this way you could – you could speak to the crowds on the matter, right? _Show_ people what you’ve done, how you turned from enemies to friends to... to lovers. Just by caring enough to understand each other. There’s not a person here in this house who doesn’t see how important this is. All of us, we will stand by you, and _everything_ you represent. And if the two of you turned out to be so similar – I wonder, you know—? How like brothers might every _other_ soldier in this war turn out to be? We all picked a side because we had to, but none of us know if it was the right one. You have to be yourselves. Please. It’s the only way to end this.”

Zira and Crowley stared at her. Then they stared at each other.

Zira found himself nodding. He bent his head and rested his forehead on Crowley’s. “Bare truth.”

Crowley smiled.

They were scared, but they were in this together.

Bare truth.

Whether or not a public show of honesty could stop the entire war was a concept too abstract to consider. But the word of a servant, a hairdresser, and Zira and Crowley’s own two beating, beating hearts said they damn well ought to try.

  


**♔**

  



	21. Anticipation

Even at four-thirty in the afternoon, the sky was light. The world was transforming. Zira looked at his pocket watch and then back at the sky, and he knew it was only a matter of weeks until spring came. A pale blue sheen coated the dome of the world, pinked at the horizon, where the skeletons of trees waited for their new clothes.

But it was cold. Cold enough that Zira, with his ever-warm hands, stood stomping his feet, fists in his coat pockets, wriggling his nose to keep the blood flowing. The snow had not yet melted, but it had compacted down, trodden flat, dirtied along the driveway. The only white snow lived at the edges of the gardens, where nobody but foxes and crows had put their feet.

Zira checked his watch again. How long could a haircut and a tiny tattoo take?! Zira had been forced to leave Madame Tracy and Crowley behind, as he wanted to get ready for the ball at his own pace, and that meant he needed every minute of those four-and-a-half remaining hours to prepare. Yet at the end of that time, Zira had come to the living room, only to find the privacy screens erected, and Anathema, Winnie, and Bertha all standing around, uttering excited encouragements to Madame Tracy, who was behind the screens with Crowley, apparently very busy. Nobody let Zira get close enough to peek.

So here he was, outside, waiting.

The door opened behind him and he was almost swept down the stairs – he scooted aside, hands on the stone banister so he didn’t slip.

“Oops, sorry,” Anathema said.

“Oh, I _say_! You look spectacular,” Zira cried, seeing Anathema with her hair done up in elaborate curls, jewels and feathers in her hair. She had a new cobalt-blue coat on, hiding her gown, but Zira saw a flash of diamond. “Absolutely breathtaking.”

“Aw, thanks! Winnie is a girl of many talents.”

“Is— Is Crowley ready yet?” Zira asked anxiously. “We really must be going, we’ll be late otherwise...”

“Madame Tracy’ll be taking him in her horse trap,” Anathema said. “He needs another half-hour.”

“Oh, but couldn’t we wait—”

“You and I can’t be tardy,” Anthema said sensibly, picking up her skirts and stepping carefully down the stairs. “He’ll catch up, I promise. And Newt’s meeting us there.”

Zira fretted at the door, wanting to go back and say goodbye, but he looked one more time at his watch, and knew he didn’t have a moment to spare. He followed Anathema down the stairs to the path, then along towards the stables.

He turned in surprise, hearing huffed breaths and rushing footsteps coming up behind them. “Oh, hullo,” he said, seeing Winnie sprint past in black trousers, a white blouse, and a black dinner jacket. “Don’t you look marvellous. Are you coming too?”

“Driving you!” Winnie exclaimed, throwing herself into the seat that was once Wignall’s, gathering up the reins on Nellie and Stanton. Stanton, the grey stallion, was two full hands larger than Nellie, making them an odd pair to pull a carriage, but without Ophelia, they had no other option.

Anathema laughed softly, opening the carriage door for Zira, as in her excitement, Winnie had forgotten to do it.

“Oh,” Zira said softly, climbing in with a smile. “Thank you, my Lady.” He then offered a hand to help Anathema up.

Anathema called out of the door, “You know the way, Winnie.”

“I’ll try not to get lost, my Lady!”

Anathema shut the door and sat down, amused. “If there was any chance we’d slip by unnoticed... that just went up in flames. Us two, arriving in a half-repaired coronation carriage pulled by mismatched horses. And Crowley... I say it’s a horse trap, but that thing Tracy had pulling her around is really more of a pony.”

The carriage pulled around the driveway, aimed for the front gate. Zira watched the Device Estate out of the back window, a lilac block, bold among a perfect silver forest as dusk came down around it. As the manor shrank into the distance, then whisked off to the side as the carriage turned into the road, Zira thought about Crowley. He hoped he’d make it on time. New dress, new hairstyle, new tattoo... No matter what lay before them, joy or fear or something in between, Zira just hoped Crowley would feel beautiful tonight.

  


**♔**

  


What the Resistance wanted, the Resistance got. Even after knowing for months that the Winter Ball was to be hosted at the British Museum of Natural History, and even after living a lifetime in the world where his peers enjoyed luxuries such as this, awe still rocked Baronet Zira Fell to his very core as he stepped from Lady Anathema’s carriage, at once dwarfed by the absolute majesty of the cathedral before him.

Two massive spires pieced the starry night sky, illuminated from below by some unseen, impossibly golden light source. Between the towers, central stone arches nested inside each other, narrowing and shrinking to lead the way to the front entrance, which was blown open and poured light down the steps.

Zira could not imagine how many candles were burning inside. Despite the biting chill of a night without clouds, and despite standing lower than the door, he could feel the radiant heat from here.

Their carriage left in a clatter of horseshoes, Winnie waving as she went. The next carriage pulled up, and Zira and Anathema stepped aside, bowing and curtseying as Countess Uriel was helped from the carriage by a beau. The Countess paused for a brief moment to acknowledge Anathema and Zira; a nod, a polite smile. The Countess’ dark skin was painted with gold leaf upon full cheekbones; a peacock feather bobbed over short, fluffy hair as the regal couple strode to the base of the steps, equally confident in tailored trousers.

Zira watched them go. “You’d almost think the Countess doesn’t _remember_ us dropping off two-and-a-half thousand books in that Ealing basement on Christmas night, just a month ago,” he murmured.

“Everyone else has a reputation to uphold too,” Anathema said, straightening her satin gloves. “Uriel mentions your bookshop situation, and it invites questions. It’s best for you if it goes forgotten.”

Zira nodded, offering Anathema his elbow and climbing the stairs with her.

He could hear music, flowing out into the night. A flip of excitement stole through his heart.

“I hope Crowley’s not too far behind,” Zira said as they reached the top of the stairs, looking back to the wet and shiny road, where carriages came and went. A trill of laughter echoed, distant, then came a group cheer from the other side of the road.

“Newt said he’d meet us h— Oh, right on time! Hey, sweetie.” Anathema held out both hands, and they were taken and held and kissed by the dapper Newton Pulsifer, who bowed to set his nose to her gloves. He stood tall, eyes gleaming, looking more confident than Zira had ever seen him. His blue coat-tails were long to his knees, his cravat fluffy and white, his starched collar sharp at his jaw. His spectacles were clean.

“My lady,” Newt said, all his attention on her.

Anathema gazed back, smiling until she grinned. Newt turned to lead her inside, and she went on his arm, striding inside with all the elegance of born royalty.

Zira watched them go, unsure if he was meant to follow. “Hello?” he called. “Should I just—?”

But they were gone, lost in each other’s eyes. Anathema paused to give two donations at a staffed table, handing over twin red velvet bags that she’d kept in her skirts. She gestured back once towards Zira. And then she went on, and Zira lost sight of her behind a scarlet curtain.

He heard the faint announcement inside, a bold voice speaking over the music: “_Lady Anathema Device of Highworth, and Master Newton Pulsifer of Dorking._”

There came applause, and some cries of greeting, and then it all faded back to the music; an orchestra wailed and hummed and trilled, matching the golden glow for warmth.

Zira didn’t want to go in without Crowley. He wanted them to be announced together. It could be exciting, couldn’t it? _Sir Zira Fell of Westminster, and Sir Anthony Janice Crowley of Mayfair..._

There was a thrill to it, Zira supposed as he hopped from foot to foot, huffing out cold breaths, hands tucked under his arms. Breaking the rules gave him an uplifting jolt, somewhere deep down. Knowing, _knowing_ that he was supposed to be here with a dainty, soft-spoken, mousey-haired woman, a woman who taught English to orphans and painted birds in watercolours – but instead he’d be descending the grand staircase into a pool of nobility with the world’s most exquisite demon on his arm... it turned Zira’s stomach, yet set something _ablaze_ in the rest of him. He’d so often fantasised about _not_ doing what he was meant to do that standing here, _waiting_ to not do it, felt acutely sensational.

He nodded to every noblewoman and man who came past; he bowed, and said his good-evenings, and how-do-you-dos. He scrubbed his palms together, wrinkling his gloves, trying to keep them from going numb. His toes were a lost cause.

He checked his pocket watch a dozen times. It had taken over three hours to travel from the Device Estate to London and arrive at the Museum, and now, as eight o’clock approached, he wondered for the hundredth time where the devil Crowley had gotten to. Surely he was in Central London by now.

It was nearing half-past-eight when Zira grunted in frustration. His stomach was growling, and his bladder was very upset with him indeed. He tucked his watch away into the pocket of his thick golden waistcoat, and decided he’d sneak in for a moment, find a washroom, find something to nibble, then come back out to wait.

He entered, sweeping with purpose through the open doors. He was comforted by the sweltering heat of the room, then overwhelmed by it; his skin stung in shock as he thawed.

Ahead was a massive domed room, glass-roofed to show the stars. Hundreds of people in pastel-light dresses and colourful coat-tails danced and mingled, with hors d'oeuvres and blood-red wine in their bejeweled hands. Zira stood on an upper balcony before a twelve-foot-wide stone staircase. He set his hands on the barrier, looking down upon the party with a smile. Oh, he wished Crowley were here to see this. Although they held the same rank, Zira would bet anything that the Black Knights never threw parties like this. Crowley had never known such decadence.

“Sir?” came a voice. Zira looked left and saw a potbellied man in white holding a scroll. He spoke with a nasal voice and a very, very posh accent, “N’Have you made your donation?”

“Oh! Oh, yes, Lady Anathema made it in my name – I was waiting outside, you see, my fiancée isn’t here yet. Would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the washrooms?”

“N’Down the stairs and to the left, sir,” the man said. “H’Might I ask your name?”

“Hm? Oh. Zira. Zira Fell. Pleasure to meet you.” Zira offered a hand. “And you are?”

The man gave him an odd look. He turned to the Museum’s Grand Hall and announced, in the biggest, most booming voice Zira had ever heard, “Sir Zira Fell of Westminster!”

A murmur emerged from the crowd, faces looking up at him.

“Oh, good Heavens— I didn’t mean to be announced now! Oh dear. Oh dear. Well. No helping it now, I suppose. Right. Onwards.” Zira gathered himself up and began his descent of the staircase, one hand on the slightly-warm banister, eyes flicking around the room. He saw many familiar faces, and many unfamiliar.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and flushed with alarm as people came to him, reaching to shake his hands, saying things like, “We’d heard you weren’t coming, my daughter was _so_ disappointed, we’re so glad you changed your mind,” and “I’d been meaning to tell you: do you _know_, your support made the Battle of Westchester possible? Kept the whole platoon going all week!” and “Sir Fell, where _is_ that lovely fiancée of yours? After all you said about her watercolours I started a little hobby of my own, I’d hoped to show them—”

“Please, please,” Zira said testily, trying very hard to keep a smile on his face. “I’m very grateful to you all, and so delighted to hear your stories, but I must depart briefly. Won’t be two ticks. Pip-pip!” He hurried off, chased by tuts of admonishment.

In any other year of his life, hearing the judgemental _tt!_ of a tongue clicked upon the roof of someone’s mouth would’ve been enough to keep him awake for weeks, tossing and turning with an upset stomach, haunted by the thought that he’d briefly disappointed or mildly inconvenienced anyone.

Right now he didn’t give a flying foxtrot what anyone thought. He was in that sort of mood.

He found the bathrooms – the gentlemen’s room – whiling away his time in there wondering whether Crowley would use the gents or the ladies, then wondering why public places didn’t have some kind of neutral ground where they both wouldn’t feel out of place.

Fresh-faced and re-lotioned, Zira emerged back to the ballroom, looking first at the dinosaur skeleton in the middle of the hall, then at the staircase leading back up to the entrance. There was another couple descending, apparently the Marquess and Marchioness of Wolverhampton. Zira had never met them, but bowed anyway when they floated past in their finery.

Zira spied _those_ people with stories and questions hovering about, and he decided he didn’t want to talk to them. So, feeling very naughty and very enlivened because of it, he turned his back and walked away, pretending he hadn’t seen them waiting.

For ten or twenty minutes, he patrolled the edge of the room, which was a darker walkway separated from the Grand Hall by a run of wide arches. He admired the fossils and taxidermy animals under glass cases, keeping an ear and eye out for anyone who approached. There was one door open to the outside, presumably to let the stifling heat out and a rush of winter cleanliness in.

For a while, Zira leaned in that doorway, looking out to the blueness of night, admiring the stars. A wandering path led away from here, snow-dusted grass shining in the first light of the crescent moon. Soon, with a smile, he turned from the cool air and back to the heat of the party.

He engaged in two or three unavoidable conversations, but thankfully, they never strayed from the prescribed exchange of “Hello again, my fine fellow, so good to see you here,” followed by, “I _do_ hope you have a good time, isn’t it lovely? Very impressive,” or suchlike, and “Yes, my fiancée will be here shortly, there was a delay with the carriages, that’s all,” and so on and so forth until someone said, “Well! Hope to catch you around again,” and went off. People didn’t linger, because Zira was obviously busy skulking, and people didn’t come to a Winter Ball to _skulk_.

Zira privately wondered if Crowley had rubbed off on him, somehow. Zira had never skulked before in his life.

Honestly? Wasn’t that bad. Far less emotionally draining, anyhow.

Eventually Zira was too disturbed by the howling of his stomach, and with a firm sigh and a hand rubbing the empty spot, he crossed through the mixing, mingling crowds and beelined for a waiter with a tray.

His fingers wiggled happily as he found a dozen little rolls. They were a bit like dumplings but with their middles exposed; bright vegetables and spices bloomed from their tops. Zira took one, placing the whole thing in his mouth.

His eyes shut, and he moaned, sinking down with a sigh of ecstasy. There was something about tiny food designed to be eaten in one bite that was just too delightful for words. He chewed, swallowed, then chased the waiter for more.

After the waiter realised Zira was just going to keep finding him, he offered the whole tray, and Zira took it without a second thought.

He stood alone for a whole five minutes, unmoving in a bustling, waltzing crowd, popping hor d'oeuvres one-by-one into his mouth and having the time of his life.

Once the tray was empty, he looked around, wondering what to do with it. He put it down underneath the dinosaur skeleton.

He took a quick scan of the room to check if anyone was judging him, as old habits died hard – whereupon a slip of black caught his attention, right at the top of the stairs. His eyes rose towards the movement.

And there he was.

Sir Anthony Janice Crowley, of Mayfair.

The fiancée of Zira’s dearest and truest fantasies had arrived at last.

  


**♔**

  



	22. The Scrutiny of Starlight

“_Sir Anthony J. Crowley of Mayfair._”

It hardly seemed real. Zira’s heart was pounding. His ears were pulsing. His body felt light and floaty.

Here he came, taking the steps down one at a time.

Crowley looked nothing like the picture of womanhood Zira expected to see. Yet there was no mistaking that the announcer had the right person. Crowley wore sharp heeled boots with pointy toes, tight and shiny trousers, a black shirt with a spiked collar, covered by a velvet tail-coat, black buttons down either side. His cravat was blood-red, matching his hair. He wore a casual smirk, tilting his lips, and likely wrinkling his eyes, a detail Zira would’ve seen if those eyes weren’t hidden behind sunglasses, the second pair Anathema had bought for him.

And his hair...

It wasn’t long to his shoulders anymore. It wasn’t curled. It was short at the sides, neat and rounded at the back, and poofed up tall and twisted atop his head. Zira never would’ve imagined him this way, but it suited him just as comfortably as the long hair had, or the dress.

Zira’s breath had been stolen away, and he didn’t really want it back.

Crowley neared the bottom of the stairs, and Zira realised he’d floated closer through the crowd to meet him, feet drawn to his lover without knowing it. He reached out a hand, taking Crowley’s the way he might a lady’s.

“Heyyy, angel,” Crowley said softly.

Zira’s heart was fluttering, about to fly away. “Hello, my dear.”

Crowley dropped from the last step, eyes on Zira’s as they led each other into the murmuring crowd, all but unaware of the quiet uproar they were gradually causing. People either knew or didn’t know Crowley’s name. They realised, in hushed tones, that he was not part of the gentry – and with a title of ‘sir’, that only meant one thing...

“What became of the ballgown?” Zira asked, softly, taking Crowley’s other hand.

They faced each other, too close for friends. Zira’s heart was pounding. He was afraid of this, being here, being like this – but how could _Zira_ be afraid, when Crowley was being so brave just showing up? Crowley ought to have been a hundred times more scared, and yet...?

Crowley shrugged. “Wasn’t feeling the dress tonight. Wanted something more...” he looked down at himself, “streamlined.”

Zira smiled. After only a single hesitation, they began to dance. “And the hair?”

“Eh, it’ll grow back,” Crowley said. “I’m not exactly fighting to feel comfortable these days, am I,” he admitted. “The long hair was something I could have when I couldn’t have anything else.”

“It looks superb,” Zira said, as they turned, pacing clockwise, and noblewomen uttered and hurried out of their way, staring and clutching each other. “And the tattoo...?”

Crowley turned his head, smiling as he showed off a sore patch of skin, red and prickled with the start of scabs. The black serpentine coils were shiny and indistinct, but through the gloss of some soothing ointment, Zira could see the snake Pepper had designed for Crowley. The sword was gone. Crowley was officially no longer a Knight.

“How do you feel?” Zira asked, one hand holding Crowley’s shoulder, the other reaching to hold the side of his neck. Crowley held Zira’s waist, and they turned, and turned, oblivious to the people around them.

“Good,” Crowley uttered, a squeeze in his voice. “Really... really good.” He smiled, and Zira by knew there was a mist of emotion behind the sunglasses.

“You know we shouldn’t be doing this,” Zira said, while enjoying the fact they were doing it anyway. “Dancing together. Not you and me. Not like this.”

“I know, angel.” Crowley smirked. “Both look like men! Ooh. So scandalous.”

Zira laughed, eyes closing for a moment. “Is that what we are now? A scandal?”

“Mm?” Crowley pressed his lips together, glancing around. “Looks like.”

For the first time, Zira’s gaze broke from Crowley, and shot around the room. Although the music played on, and people danced, there were an unusual number of faces turned their way. Perhaps, for the moment, people in the crowd assumed what they always assumed: if something peculiar went unstopped, it was supposed to be happening. Perhaps Zira and Crowley were entertainment. Perhaps acquaintances could dance together if there was no woman available. Perhaps Crowley was here as an emissary for the Black Knights. Something like that, surely! Else this wouldn’t be permitted to continue. Or perhaps, quite frankly, it was none of their business.

And so their dance went on for minutes, and they were happily undisturbed.

Then the music changed, and it was a song Zira didn’t know. But from the squeals of excitement and the hurry-hurry-hurry of a hundred pairs of feet, everyone else knew it. He even saw Anathema and Newt getting into position, opposite each other in a row of other people.

“Do you know it?” Zira asked Crowley, as partners began to prance down the aisles of people, feet twisting, hands behind their backs, then raised in arches. It seemed simple enough, until the people making up the aisles started to swap places, spinning around each other, jumping on the beats, exchanging partners.

“Not a clue,” Crowley said, as he and Zira kept side-stepping in the middle of the ballroom, not too far from the dinosaur. “Must be a generational thing.”

“Should we sit this one out?”

“And give someone an opportunity to some nosy bugger who’s itching to ask us personal questions? No thanks.”

“Then dance with me,” Zira said, refreshing his position, hands out and open to Crowley. “I know how to waltz, sort of.”

“Can’t waltz to this music, angel.”

“Try me,” Zira smiled.

Crowley started to grin. “You’ve changed,” he said.

“Have I?”

They began a waltz, completely at odds with the nature of the music, but keeping time with it anyway. It was a very fast, frantic waltz.

“Since I met you,” Crowley explained, as they spun fast down the marble, Crowley’s heels tapping down, Zira’s toes sweeping after him. “You’re different.”

“Better, I hope.”

“I doubt there’s many people here who’d see it that way,” Crowley said. “But.” His grin was devilish and full of love. “You know _I_ do. You’re a rebel.”

“I’m no such thing!”

“You aaaare,” Crowley droned, holding Zira closer, one hand against his lower back. “You’re so rebellious you can’t even get in line with the _Resistance_. And they basically invented challenging the status quo.”

“Says you,” Zira jabbed, a defiant twinkle in his eyes. “You signed on as a Black Knight looking for a way to be part of something inclusive, and be – what? – a force for good? Didn’t you? And now look. You found all that. _After_ you gave that manipulative cult a proper booting.”

Crowley’s grin widened. “A proper _booting_?”

“Oh, shut up.”

Crowley laughed, quacking the way he did.

The group danced on and on without them, cheering and whistling and paying Crowley and Zira no attention. As Zira turned, slightly out of breath now, he stopped, drawing Crowley to a halt too. He felt the touch of cool night air on the side of his neck...

He looked towards open doors, and saw the stars waiting. Winter was calling.

He gave Crowley a soft look, then took his hand, fingers interlocked, and led him outside into the cold.

Their breaths fogged before them, and the sound of the dancefloor fell away, part of a different world now. They stepped on from gold to blue, down some steps, onto a paved path, crunchy with salt.

“What’s out here?” Crowley asked.

Zira gave him a look, then pressed close, held his cheek, and kissed him. “Privacy,” he said. Eyes and heart twinkling, he took Crowley and ran on through the grounds, followed by a perplexed laugh and the skidding heels of Crowley’s boots.

“Angel— Angel, slow down, you’ll slip— Where are we going?”

“Anywhere!” Zira threw his arms out, spinning with exhilaration. “We could be free, Crowley, you said it yourself. I look back there—” his eyes landed on the glow of the open doors, then back to Crowley, skin painted blue in the moonglow, “and I wonder why we came. Why _did_ we come here, tonight? This is no party, Crowley, it’s an excuse to steal money to fund a hateful waste. What obligation do I have to the Resistance? I have nothing left to give them. And Anathema said once... do you remember? She said there’s better ways to spend our time, our energy, our money, all our love.” Zira stopped on the path with Crowley, exhaling. “I realised in there... I don’t want this. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted this. This world. These people. They repulse me. I hate that I’m one of them.”

Crowley wanted to celebrate that revelation, but couldn’t do so much as smile. “Angel, what are you saying?”

“Run away with me,” Zira said. “Now. Let’s go. Elope. While nobody’s looking.”

Crowley’s lip started to twitch. “You’re serious? We’re not even engaged, angel, it’s just pretend. We’re pretending.”

For a second, Zira’s resolve flinched, and Crowley regretted what he’d said.

Lips licked shiny, Zira hurled out a cloud, then started on down the path. Crowley followed, their footsteps falling as echoes of each other, then perfectly in time.

There was a pavillion up ahead in the frozen garden, two steps up on stilts. Its pointy roof was capped with snow. One side of the pavillion opened up to a forest path, which was draped in shadows too dark to see through.

Halfway there, Crowley noticed Zira giving him a cheeky look. Crowley started to smile, and Zira burst out laughing, shoving Crowley and running off. Crowley rubbed his ribs where he’d been shoved, then fell into a careful jog, chuckling because Zira was laughing, apparently buoyant with a new lease on life.

Zira stepped up and paced to the centre of the shaded pavillion, then, when Crowley reached him, about to speak, Zira fled to the border, hands on the fence, overlooking the garden. Crowley joined him, leaning forward with his elbows on the barrier, looking down into a small frozen pond. They both grinned.

“You,” Zira said with some force, chin turned up, eyes on the stars. “Crowley, you are exquisite. Tonight. And every night. Every moment, of every day, you are – unbelievable. Just...” He peered at Crowley with a shake of his head, awe and softness in his eyes. He wet his lips again, then bowed his head. “I want to thank you for... being with me.”

Crowley opened his mouth wide to remind Zira he’d kind of _insisted_ on coming tonight, really, so it was hardly as if Crowley was doing anyone a favour...

But then Crowley registered the tone Zira used.

He didn’t mean here. He didn’t mean now.

_Thank you for being with me... all the time we’ve been together. Thank you for building a relationship with me. It’s changed my world. It’s changed everything about me._

Now Crowley looked at Zira, silent, his smile only just tugging the corners of his lips.

Zira shrugged, then offered a look, loving and tender and hopeful. “And thank you f-for...” He gulped, easing closer, shoulder pressed to Crowley’s as he leaned on the pavillion border too. “Thank you for being... my fiancée...?”

All the breath went out of Crowley.

He stared.

Had Zira just... proposed?

He had.

And now Zira waited for an answer, just as breathless as Crowley. Zira held his own hands, nibbling his lower lip, eyes wide and eyebrows angled outwards. Crowley had never seen anyone brimming with more longing than Zira in this moment.

Crowley finally breathed, trying to think past all his rushing, howling feelings. “Hhjmnhmuy’wuh,” he managed, before gushing, “You’re welcome, angel.”

_Yes. I’ll marry you. Oh, angel, yes._

Zira’s eyes were sparkling with stars. “Oh,” he said, with such a quiver to his smile, like he hadn’t fully expected that answer but had hoped for it with all his heart. “Oh, it’s... it’s no... no trouble, my dear... I—” He gasped with the force of his emotion and threw his arms up – Crowley stood and rushed against him, wrapping him in an embrace so tight that their ribs could’ve interlocked. Crowley grasped Zira’s hair, breathing wetly and shakily against his scalp, while Zira pushed kiss after kiss below Crowley’s ear, sniffling a little.

“I love you,” Zira whispered.

Crowley trembled, not resisting the surge of tears that rose, stinging his cold eyes. “I-I love _you_,” he said, wondering why he sounded surprised, when he hadn’t meant to. “I love you,” he said again, softer this time. He hid his face against Zira’s tail-coat collar, letting a trembling tear soak up. “I love you.”

They held on for a while, swaying, bodies full up with the glowing, wholesome contentment that came of cherishing someone, and being cherished in return. Crowley had thought he knew the feeling before, but as the reality of this exchange sank in – Zira wanted to love Crowley, forever, for _ever_, until the stars burned out – he felt love anew. He felt _everything_ anew.

Crowley had been reborn tonight. This moment marked the start of his new life.

Slowly, they sank apart, still clutching each others arms.

“Let’s go, then, angel,” Crowley said to Zira, smiling. “Right now. You and me. Off in the stars.”

Zira said nothing, but gripped Crowley like they were about to spread their wings and take off, hurled fast into the night towards a place where nobody would find them.

Only they didn’t make it that far.

A pale figure came out of the shadows. He was important-looking, his peaked hairline lush but receding, his figure too tall, too strong, wearing a lilac outfit, a long white scarf draped around his shoulders, and a horribly smug smirk.

“Sorry, sorry,” he said, in a way that didn’t sound sorry. “Hate to interrupt.” He swaggered closer, the shadows of moonlight through the trees casting patches of silver on his clothes and face. It had to be the light, but for a split-second, Crowley thought his eyes looked purple.

“Ooh,” the stranger said, shrugging his shoulders up and ducking a few inches as he got close. “This looks intimate.”

Zira swallowed. His hand held Crowley’s tighter. His greeting came out in a dry whisper, failing to hide his terror.

“Gabriel.”

  


**♔**

  



	23. Winning

Crowley’s first impression of Gabriel was that the word ‘unctuous’ could’ve been invented purely for him. He took Zira’s hand in both of his, practically oozing, “So delighted you could make it, Fell, it’s been too _long_,” but within mere seconds the smile fell into a snide squint, he began to wring Zira’s poor hand, uttering as if Crowley wasn’t there, “Having a few, ah, financial difficulties, I’ve noticed? Your last, significantly reduced payment to the Resistance fell through...” He sucked air through his teeth. “Mm. Too bad, huh?”

Zira tried to keep a smile on his face, even as his hand was strangled. “Really, that’s – just a temporary setback.” His voice went squeaky and breathy as he added, “Nothing to worry about.”

“Your army needs you, Fell,” Gabriel said, standing back, head tilted carelessly as he finally released Zira’s hand. “Hope you won’t disappoint.”

Zira held his bruised hand, and Crowley _raged_ inside, seeing the tension in Zira’s face as he tried not to burst into tears. Crowley turned flaming eyes on Gabriel, seeing him no longer as merely unctuous, but as evil incarnate. The guy shouldn’t bother pretending to be nice. He wasn’t.

Apparently pleased about how he’d left Zira, Gabriel now looked at Crowley. “And you!” he said cheerfully. “Who are you, then?” His eyes dipped down Crowley’s body, then up to his face, staring at the sunglasses in distaste. Gabriel looked sharply at Zira. “C’maahn, Fell, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

All Crowley and Zira’s plans for coming out to the world seemed to be up in the air. In this moment, Zira had the option to lie to Gabriel, and say he and Crowley were just friends, or tell the truth and say they were fiancees – which was all backwards from what they’d discussed beforehand. Crowley looked to Zira, as the choice rested wholly with him. Gabriel was _his_ former superior, not Crowley’s, and if Zira wanted to reveal the changes they intended to make, or remain placid to keep them safe, he could.

“Yes,” Zira said to Crowley, with forced calm. “Dear, may I introduce his Grace, the Duke of Cambridge – originally of the Americas, of course. Nobility by marriage. Several marriages, actually. Um. Ah- Anyway, that’s besides the point—”

Now, to Gabriel, Zira said, standing tall and confident, “Gabriel, I’d like you to meet – Sir Anthony J. Crowley of Mayfair.” He smiled, and added, “My fiancee.”

Crowley was used to people looking at him like a bug they would take great pleasure in squishing, and Gabriel was no exception. But Crowley got the distinct impression Gabriel had known who he was already, as well as his relation to Zira. The surprised expression – open mouth, raised eyebrows, a slight backward tilt of his body – was carelessly faked.

“Crowley, was it?” Gabriel said, leaning forward again. He pursed his lips, squinted, shook his head an inch. “Aren’t you one of the Black Knights?”

“Formerly,” Crowley said, voice and shoulders steady. He stared Gabriel down from behind his sunglasses.

“Missing in action,” Gabriel said, hands interlocked in front of his crotch. “Presumed dead. And yet... A deserter? Mm.” He cocked his chin to one side, eyes twinkling with moonlight. “Taking up with a Resistance Baronet. _Ttch_. Could get you in a lot of trouble.”

“Ah, well,” Zira said, with a mouthful of air. “About that. We h-have this idea, see.” He fumbled at his side until Crowley took his hand, and they held on, both their palms sweating. “The two sides... are... united. A political marriage. Of sorts. A-And. Um. And people see us. Together. And they see that. That peace is okay! There doesn’t _have_ to be a war. We can end it. We can save – everyone!”

“Oh, grow up,” said a flat voice behind Gabriel.

An unpleasant smile was growing up Gabriel’s face like a slow, bloodless knife wound.

“Sounds familiar, doesn’t it,” that same disembodied voice said, closer this time. “You people never learn.”

Out of the shadows came another shadow, one with a pasty face and a steady step. They wore a black suit, a black cravat over a white shirt, decorated with metal embellishments, sable hair jagged and messy. Crowley’s heart began to pound. He’d only ever seen unflattering caricature drawings, but suddenly realised how accurate they’d been.

“Lord Beelzebub,” Crowley said, resisting the urge to bow low. He only flinched. Then he frowned, and drew a cold breath. “Forgive me, but I’m curious – what are you doing here? I suppose... your soldiers are here too—?” Crowley looked around the empty garden, waiting for an ambush. A battle could start any moment...

Beelzebub came to stand at Gabriel’s side, and Gabriel didn’t even look, just kept smiling.

“He doesn’t know,” Gabriel uttered to Beelzebub, with considerable amusement. “He hasn’t figured it out yet. Y’know, I don’t think _either_ of them have.” He pursed his lips sadly. “Mm. Pity. Less fun if they don’t understand.”

“Well,” Beelzebub put both hands in the front pockets of those black trousers, bouncing twice on the toes of tough boots, “Can’t say either of them was ever the smartest. We’ll just have to exzzzplain.”

“Fffffigured what out,” Crowley said blankly. “What. What’s going on.” He glanced at Zira, who looked just as confounded.

Gabriel drew a huge breath, and announced, “Beez and I have come to a little agreement about you two. In the past – well! We dealt with your sort quietly. A reclusive Baronet, a traitorous Knight... Who’d ever notice if they vanished from the face of the Earth? But... Hm. To our great dismay, it just – keeps – _happening_! Every so often, someone gets a little bee in their bonnet about ‘peace’ and ‘tranquility’ and ‘us _all getting along_’ and ‘_accepting our differences_’ – what _is_ this, kindergarten?” The amusement had swept out of Gabriel and he looked murderous. “Seems we had to make an example of someone.”

“I-I-I’m sorry?” Zira said, in a questioning tone, “Are you saying that – I can’t be sure, but – do you mean to say that—”

Beelzebub rolled two dark eyes. “We’re _saying_ that your invitation for tonight was all an elaborate ruse to get you and your _mistress_ here out of the house and into public.” Beelzebub nosed towards Crowley, then glanced pointedly at Gabriel. “Suffice to say, old Dukey here wasn’t going to invite the Baronet at _all_—”

“Aw, nothing personal, Fell,” Gabriel said lightly. “Steady decline in donations these last few years. That’s all. Bad form at a gathering like this, with all the big players. People who are _really_ serious about the cause.”

“But then it came to our attention,” Beelzebub went on, squaring both shoulders, head down, fixing Crowley with a glare, “on very good authority—”

Behind them, a third figure stepped off the forest path and into the moonlight, but he stayed back, face half in shadow. The glow of a cigar flared under his curled fingers. His sideburns had been shaved higher, showing his tattoo. Wignall gave Crowley an upward nod and a dastardly smile, blowing smoke and vapour.

Beelzebub continued, “Turnzzz out, we had much bigger problemzz than one insignificant disappearing Knight and a Baronet who wouldn’t pay up.”

“Y-You’ve been – consorting,” Zira muttered, looking between Beelzebub and Gabriel. “All this time. Haven’t you? The leaders of the Resistance, the leaders of the Black Knights – you’re working together. You’re collaborating. To what _end_?!”

“Yours,” Gabriel grinned. “Obviously.”

Gabriel held out his palm to Beelzebub, who slapped it. They both looked smug.

“Don’t you get it?” Gabriel asked, hands splaying out. “The game must be played. Rook takes Bishop. Knight takes Pawn. Knight betrays the rules of the game and tries to leave the board, hand-in-hand with a Rook from the opposing side – mm?” Gabriel pulled an uncomfortable face. “Doesn’t sit too well with the players.”

Zira shook his head over and over. “You can’t do this. You’re not _God_. The world isn’t a game, it’s full of people! Real, innocent people! You can’t just roll the dice and—”

“Are you saying God does not play dice with the universe?” Gabriel asked, one eyebrow up. “Hey, look, pal, we know. She plays _chess_. Don’t mix metaphors, Fell, it’s upsetting to everyone.”

Crowley snarled, stepping forward, a finger trust at Gabriel’s throat. “I’ll tell _you_ what’s upsetting—”

Zira yanked Crowley back, urging, “Crowley, don’t.”

Crowley held his tongue for Zira’s sake, though he was still livid and shaking with the urge to bite someone’s head off.

“Here _you_ are,” Gabriel sighed, thumbing towards the unhappy couple. “Charging around, trying to make the world a better place. You want the war over with. But the point is not to _avoid_ the war, it’s to _win_ it.”

“But,” Beelzebub sneered, which might have been a smile, “with enough delay to rack up the profits first. Maybe we’ll let it peter out after another generation or two.”

Crowley coughed a laugh. “Seriously? This is about money?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Gabriel shrugged. “Everything’s about money. Those suckers in there donate thousands, _hundreds_ of thousands altogether, and they feel like they helped someone. And they get a nice party. For them it’s a fair exchange. The Knights? They sign up and they hand over control of their life savings, to pay for their food, armour, weapons—”

“We promise they’ll get it back, _with_ interest,” Beelzebub said slyly. “...Once the war’s won. I’d call that a motivation to win.”

“But—” Zira was beyond aghast. “But they die! And you keep it all. And how can the war be won if you’re keeping the war effort _thriving_—”

“So I buy a nice castle up in Scotland,” Gabriel shrugged. “So Beez gets the world’s first steam-powered automobile and a pet tiger. Hey, if the leaders are winning, the whole army’s winning, right?” His happy grin was abhorrent.

“Great! Now we know you’re both scum,” Crowley rasped, showing his teeth, ready to bite. “But you clearly want us out of the picture, so why not just – let us go?” His tone turned hopeful. “Just let us out of here and we’ll disappear forever, never to be seen again!”

Gabriel threw his head back laughing, as Beelzebub tittered, buzzing with each inhale. Even Wignall barked twice in the background.

“No chance of that,” Gabriel said.

“_They_ all saw you,” Beelzebub said, head cocked towards the Museum, where the faintest notes of music still eased out across the lawns. “And that was the point. They saw you. And now we make an example of you. Show everyone what happens to _traitors._”

Beelzebub hand swept up in a summoning gesture—

The garden moved. Zira and Crowley jerked their heads left and right, realising with alarm that there had been a dozen soldiers disguised in the shadows all along. They carried long trumpet-like weapons, their faces covered by hoods, their bodies lithe and crouched and ready to spring.

“Wh-Wh-Who,” Crowley stammered. “Who’re they.”

“Our third, secret army,” Gabriel said.

“Witchfinder Army,” Beelzebub said. “You’d be surprised what they’ll do if you tell them someone’s a confirmed witch.”

“Mercenaries, essentially,” Gabriel supposed. “Gullible lot. Good with their guns, though. Trust me, if the legends prove true, there won’t be anything but red puddles left when they’re through with you.”

Zira was panting. “Duke Gabriel. Lord Beelzebub. You have to see the irony of this,” he said, on the edge of laughter but tense with fear, hand gripping Crowley’s numb. “You must do. You’re so afraid of _us_ establishing an alliance, as a former Knight and a former Resistance figure – that you _yourselves_ teamed up just to stop us. Surely you see. If only you turned your efforts to – talking! Finding common ground—”

“Oh, we know our common ground,” Lord Beelzebub said easily. “We want the money. So the war goes on.”

“So you get a little bit exploded.” Gabriel pressed his lips together in a shrug, shoulders high, palms up. “Out of our hands.”

“Now look here!” Zira threw himself at Gabriel but Crowley held him back.

“Maybe we ought to be going, angel,” Crowley said softly. “Very fast. Now.”

Zira gathered himself together. “Yes. Quite.” He cleared his throat, forcing a smile at the two warmongers. “It seems coming here was a very big mistake of ours. Shan’t be making it again.” Crowley started to drag him away by a hand, off the edge of the pavillion. “Best be off. Up stumps and back to the pavillion, that’s what I say! Although we are _leaving_ the pavillon— Never been one for cricket myself—”

“Angel, shut your trap and run!” Crowley yelled, hurling them both across the grounds, from lawn to path to lawn again, heels and shoes splashing mushy snow away. Crowley’s legs were longer but the pointy heels slowed him; Zira overtook halfway back, puffing and panting and running for the open doors, arm outstretched—

Side-by-side they flung themselves into the warmth of the Museum’s Grand Hall, their panic at odds with the flowing joviality of the Ball. People drank their red wine and laughed sweetly, tasting tiny foods from overfull trays...

Crowley looked back and saw the Witchfinder Army coming up to the door – not at a run, but at a steady walk, like they had all the time in the world. They formed ranks and entered the doors two-by-two, their faces uncovered as they pulled back their hoods.

A few people shrieked in shock, crowds starting to back away, giving the Witchfinders a wide berth. Crowley and Zira clung to each other, hurrying into the crowds, taking shelter among them. The pair tried to hide behind the dinosaur, but the Witchfinder Army had their sights on them, and the crowds parted, leaving them behind.

“Zira!” Anathema’s voice rang out. Zira saw her in the crowd, running forward in alarm. She stood alone.

“Stay back!” Zira cried, arm out to her. “Don’t come any closer, they’ll kill you too!”

Anathema started ruffling up her dress, exposing her legs.

“Good Heavens,” Zira said, but Crowley launched back to a run, and Zira was swept off his feet, taken behind an arch to hide.

They heard the boots of the Witchfinders. They marched in step. Closer. Closer.

Crowley and Zira fled from one pillar to the next, cuddling behind the foot of each stone arch, breathing, then running to the next.

A voice echoed through the Grand Hall: Gabriel’s. “Let this be an example to all of you. _If a man lies carnally with an animal, he must be put to death. And you are also to kill the animal._ Here is the man: Sir Zira Fell of Westminster. And here is the beast: Sir Anthony J. Crowley of Mayfair. A betrayer of the Resistance. And a Black Knight.”

Crowley came face-to-face with a Witchfinder and snarled, showing his fangs. When a Thundergun was aimed at his chest, he slammed a hand against his assailant’s face and the Witchfinder was flung away, more stunned than wounded.

Zira took Crowley’s hand and they fled once more, sheltered behind another arch.

“That way,” Crowley breathed, seeing a clear path to a hallway. He didn’t know where the hallway led but anywhere was better than here.

Zira saw a moment of opportunity and stepped out, breaking into a run – but two Witchfinders got in his way and he was forced back, stumbling into Crowley.

There were Witchfinders behind them. Before them. To their left.

So they ran rightwards before the circle closed in.

“Catch!” Anathema tossed the handle of the foot-long breadknife, the one she’d had strapped to her thigh.

But Zira didn’t reach for it, and neither did Crowley. It hit the marble, clattered once, then went silent as a Witchfinder trod on the blade.

Crowley and Zira stood back-to-back, out of breath, hands together, the Witchfinders closing in around them.

Vaguely, off to the side, Zira noticed Newt pacing through the crowd of nobility, uttering, “‘Scuse me. Sorry. Hope you don’t mind. Need that. So sorry.” He was stealing everyone’s wine glasses. “Please, it’s very important— Thank you—”

Anathema looked back at Newt, catching his eye and nodding. She had a fat and heavy poultice in her hand, the sort she stuffed with herbs.

There were fourteen silver Thunderguns aimed at Crowley and Zira. The two of them were being herded backwards towards a pillar. The Witchfinders waited for Gabriel’s signal...

Gabriel was up there, at the top of the staircase, a hand raised like a Roman Emperor above the gladiator pit. The crowds clamoured quietly, some afraid, some enjoying the show...

They waited...

“Right,” Crowley said, as his back hit a pillar and he braced himself for pain followed by death. “That’s that.” To Zira, softly, he said, “Was nice knowing you.”

Zira shook his head, looking at Crowley. “We can’t give up now.”

Crowley slowly lowered his sunglasses, looking out at the Grand Hall before him, past the Thunderguns and the Witchfinders and the empty space between them and the crowd. Only two figures stood there: Anathema and Newt. Crowley started to grin through his breaths. Anathema nodded. She was ready. Newt stood behind her, arms full of glass.

“What the Hell,” Crowley said dismissively. He gave Zira’s hand a squeeze. “If you’ve gotta go, then _go with style_!”

All at once: Gabriel slammed his hand low. Anathema yowled and hurled her poultice at Crowley’s feet. Newt jumped in surprise, then yelped— Thick, boiling blue smoke filled the circle of death, whooshing out and filling the hall in a wave. Thunderguns fired. Bursts of red flame speckled around in the blue cloud – _pap, pop, plewwh, plap_—

People coughed, and wafted hands at their faces, but the blue remained.

“What’s happening?” Gabriel asked, looking down from above. “What’s going on?! Someone get this blasted smoke out of here!”

It took a minute to settle low.

Gabriel came down the stairs, striding furiously through the knee-deep smoke, churning up swirls of it behind him, boots crunching on broken glass. He came to the epicentre of the smoke bomb, where the Witchfinders stood by dutifully, wafting their hands at the last cobalt wisps. Their faces were powdered with blue.

Finally, the marble was revealed.

A massive pool of blood-red liquid stained the floor, splattered against the pillar.

“What is that?” Gabriel asked a Witchfinder, gripping his arm.

The Witchfinder smiled. “That’s what happens, your Grace. Not much left of anyone after they’re hit with that many Thunderguns.”

“That’s... them? You’re sure?”

“Yessir. Always heard stories of the damage, never saw it myself until now. Red puddle. Just as my old Sergeant Shadwell said.”

Gabriel nodded, satisfied. “Good work,” he said. Then he winced in disgust. “Ugh. Someone get a mop in here.” He turned away and spread his arms to the remaining crowd, who were shocked, but a tinge of relief coursed through them, realising the danger was over. “My friends!” Gabriel called to them. “The night is young! Let’s have a waltz!” He snapped his fingers, and with some trepidation, the music began.

Within a minute, the gentry were dancing, unaware that below their feet, the traitors were running away unharmed.

  


**♔**

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final set of chapters coming in a couple days!! (December 29th 2019)  
x


	24. The Hounds of London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapters today!! If you're seeing this in your email inbox, the fic is now completed :D

Olive trees do not grow as well in England as they do in the Medeterranian. This is due entirely to the weather. They enjoy sunshine the way fish enjoy water, and compared to the Middle East, England is naught but a muddy puddle.

But they’re tough trees. Stumpy, wide and gnarly, they’ll survive the ravaging storms of a jilted deity, or the parching droughts of summers that last years. They renew their leaves over months, but hold on tight to them over the winter, retaining that soft colour known eponymously as ‘olive green’.

For thousands of years now, ever since the Ark came to rest upon a mountain, and a dove brought a branch home in its beak, olive trees had been symbols of peace and renewal.

Outside the British Museum of Natural History, there grew an olive tree. It had been rooted there for so long, and wore such a majestic crown of leaves that nobody wanted to cut it down, and the Museum was built around it.

This tree had survived a hundred winters. The bitterest, harshest winters. Still it lived, still it grew, still it stretched its branches and twisted them strong.

Nothing could break this tree but God Herself. It carried miracles within it.

  


**♔**

  


The world seemed to move slow after they left the Grand Hall. Hand-in-hand, Crowley and Zira ran the corridors beneath the Museum, covered in blue powder, laughing in their relief, the absolute exhilaration that came of being alive, still breathing, still putting one heel before the other and chasing the maze walls that led towards their escape.

The perfume in Anathema’s hair danced back around them as she ran ahead. Reflections gleamed in the glass displays lining the sides of each hallway; fossils and animal skeletons watched four figures flash past with their unseeing eyes, old things watching new things pass, as they had done a thousand times, and would a thousand more.

Newt had found a way out. The others followed, out of breath, grins tugging their smiles wider.

As Zira and Crowley swapped their holding hands and danced on, blue clouds few from them, bursting in sluggish plumes. Blue footprints led away from what had seemed like certain death, fading with each step...

And as they approached the doors, so close to freedom, their invisible footsteps laid down a path, rushing fast towards a death just as certain as the last.

  


**♔**

  


Black drowned the ambient light out of London. As dark nights came, it was an especially dark one. The moon was thinning, but provided some shape to shadows. The stars pricked the sky like pinholes, letting down the faint glow of the cosmos.

There were no clouds.

The doors to the Museum opened and four triumphant people emerged.

Lightning struck.

No thunder. No sound at all. Just a _flash_ of blinding white light—

  


**♔**

  


Crowley, Zira, Anathema and Newt shielded their eyes with the backs of their hands and their inner arms, but realised as they did so that there was no longer anything to protect themselves from.

They breathed out stunned laughter. Ten feet away, just before the border between grass and the road, where a gilded carriage rested, there was an olive tree. The freak lightning had left it unharmed but for a single branch, which now collapsed diagonally towards the grass, its severed end smouldering red.

“Weird,” Anathema said.

And it was.

“I’ll go around,” Anathema said, talking escape plans now. “I’ll find Winnie and the carriage. You lot keep your heads down and find a place to hide. Nobody can see you. Don’t even—”

From beside the carriage in the road, a figure emerged: a black shadow with a single eye glowing red-hot. That eye turned to look at the four, and went dim. Then the lit cigar fell, and was crushed under a boot.

Crowley was the first to notice.

He stared Wignall down, not knowing what was to come next. Everyone inside the Museum thought Crowley and Zira were dead. If Wignall knew they weren’t, then their escape was in vain. They’d only bought themselves minutes, and now it would end here and now, instead of there and then. Crowley’s heart was sinking.

But, as Crowley’s sank, Zira’s rose. He, like Anathema and Newt, had seen the problem.

And he, unlike the others, had been overtaken not with fear, but fury.

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Zira said forthrightly, rolling up the sleeves on his tail-coat. He took a few paces forward, coming to the edge of the Museum’s border, where paving met with the dirt of the street. “A very big bone, in fact.”

Wignall stepped from shadow to light, but he only looked more of a mystery in the faint silver of the moon. His tattoo was all but a blur, his smile either intrepid or snide, it was hard to tell.

“You hurt Crowley,” Zira said, so much anger in his voice that his friends stayed behind him, unwilling to vex a fluffed-up cat. “You _hurt_ him.” Zira breathed out a hot cloud, and, with his hands curled into fists, he stated: “My understanding of which side is right or wrong may have crumbled to bits tonight. But there is something I know, unwavering, down to my core. _You_... are my _enemy_.”

  


**♔**

  


In quiet places around London, dogs woke from sleep. In kennels and alleyways and windows and in baskets by the bed, they lifted their chins, they pricked their ears, they tilted their heads to the side.

Now came the thunder.

It started as a hum, coming from nowhere in particular, but it drummed up high and swooped down low, and _tore_ the sky over the city.

It didn’t stop.

The hounds began to howl.

  


**♔**

  


Ophelia was restless. She snorted, and whimpered, and danced from one hoof to another, head jerking, eyes growing wide and wild. As the air came singing into her ears, she tried to buck away from it, but the carriage held her secure.

“Hush,” Wignall said to her. “Be still.” He reached for her. But he did not mean to comfort her; from Ophelia’s tack, hidden under her saddle, Wignall drew a weapon. It was no dagger. It was long and heavy and came free with a _ssshhhhhhick_. The metal sang as Wignall held it, one note reverberating against the deafening drone of the sky.

“Zira...” Crowley reached unsurely for his friend, but Zira didn’t turn back.

Zira crouched, and took the branch of the olive tree that had fallen. The tip of it still glowed red, grey with ash in places.

“Zira, you can’t—” Crowley almost laughed. “You can’t fight him with that, you’re crazy, you’ll get—”

Zira looked back over his shoulder just once, smiling.

Then he stepped forward and raised his branch, brandishing it like a sword. Wignall surged forward to meet him.

  


**♔**

  


Dogs clawed at the window panes, they yanked at their chains; some cowered under their owner’s beds, while others darted loose through the streets, heading in every direction, chasing a thunderclap: prey they’d waited all their lives to catch.

The drone faded at last, leaving the ground quaking for a number of moments.

But the howling went on. It layered deep and low and high all together, harmonising sweetly to a G-flat, wavering between major and minor. London now pulsated like a gong, the epicentre of a storm unlike any storm that had raged before.

  


**♔**

  


Metal hit wood and sparked. In any reasonable universe, Wignall’s sword would have severed the olive branch in a single stroke.

In this universe, the sword lodged in the branch, sticking there, remaining there even when Wignall tried to pull it back.

Zira sought not to attack, but to protect himself as he leaned in towards Wignall, wanting to look him in the eye. His hands shook, his arm shook, his voice shook as he asked, “Why? Tell me why you betrayed us.”

A flicker of emotion came and went through Wignall’s eyes.

“We did nothing to you,” Zira whispered, as the howling split the air and sent Ophelia into a frenzy, roaring loud, mouth open to show her teeth, her body bowing back on her haunches, front hooves lifting together. “The world gave us things you never had but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve those same privileges, Wignall. You deserved better than what you were given, I _know_— I realise you only sought to gain your prizes whatever way you could, but—

“But have you been so un_loved_,” Zira asked, pacing towards Wignall, pushing him back a step, “and have you known so little goodness that you seek to destroy any love, any _light_ that dares to sneak between the cracks of this dark world? You’re loyal to the ones who seek war rather than peace. Why them? Why _them_?”

Wignall seemed unable to speak; his eyes were drawn to his sword in the wood, still struggling to free it. He knew the universe was not supposed to work like this. His horse was braying, near-screaming now, and as he stepped back, he was close enough to comfort her, but wouldn’t look away from Zira.

“Well,” Zira said softly, “I can promise you something, Mr. Wignall.” He held Wignall’s eyes, and said, with unquestionable surety: “There is still love. There’s still peace. There’s still forgiveness to be gained. Please... let us free, good fellow. Let us leave here tonight and be on your way. I know there’s still kindness in you – it’s a light that ought never be extinguished by hatred, or fear, or greed, or a thirst for violence or vengeance. It’s still _in_ you, Wignall. I know you can feel it.”

Wignall began to grin. “Your traitor friend was right,” he said, breathless with the effort of pressing his sword. “You really are crazy.”

“There’s a place for you in Heaven,” Zira insisted. “Just as there is for everyone, sooner or later.” He managed a pleading smile. “Why not make it sooner?”

Ophelia had gone mad from the howling of the hounds, screaming now, fighting to free herself from the carriage so she could run as fast and as far as she could. She twisted her head hard, snapping part of the trap that held her. But Wignall was in her way, and she couldn’t get past him.

“All I ask is that you let us go,” Zira breathed, begging now. “I swear, you’ll never see us again.”

Wignall laughed at that. “Oh, I’ll be seeing you.” He laughed again. “I’ll see you in _Hell_.”

Ophelia rose up.

Crowley took Zira by the arm and dragged him back, holding his head in both arms, sheltering him safe, keeping him from seeing what happened behind.

For a moment all was silent. The great howls of London died.

All Zira heard was his own breaths. Then Crowley’s heartbeat.

Then Anathema’s soft voice. “We have to go. Now.”

Crowley hung onto Zira for a moment longer, but then let him go, both of them trembling. They took each other’s hands, turning as one to peer down at Wignall’s lifeless body.

Ophelia was still jumping, huffing, afraid.

“Hey,” Crowley breathed. He let Zira go and floated to the horse, a hand reached out. “It’s okay. It’s okay. Don’t worry. Shhh.”

He touched Ophelia’s nose, and she jumped away, wrenched back – but then settled, breathing hard, her face pressed to Crowley’s hand. Crowley stroked her calm. “Zira said once,” he whispered, a tremor in his voice, “one day you’d come to my aid in a time of need.” He bowed his head and rested his forehead on Ophelia’s. “You saved Zira. You saved me. You saved us all. Thank you.”

He stepped back.

“Wait,” Anathema said. “We can’t abandon Ophelia.”

Crowley hesitated, looking at the corpse – then at the horse.

He rushed for the carriage, unbolting, unlocking, and kicking what was left of it apart. Ophelia could have bucked free, but she waited. She knew what she’d done. She understood. She was masterless now. She looked at Anathema, then at Crowley for guidance.

Crowley touched her gently.

Then he looked over at Anathema and Zira and Newt. “I’ll go ahead,” he said. “I’ll find Winnie and the carriage. You stay here.” He mounted Ophelia with two pushing hands and a fast sweep of his once-broken leg. “Keep your heads down.”

Ophelia walked when Crowley told her to walk. She turned when he pressed with a heel.

She went slow. Head low, ears flat.

Crowley rubbed her shoulder as they wandered the streets, circling the block around the Museum. “The guilt,” he said, as an old, familiar darkness rose in him. “I hate to tell you this, Ophelia, but it stays with you. Maybe forever. You won’t forget, just distract. You’ll learn to... accept it. Forgiving yourself seems impossible, I know. Especially right now. But.” He drew an icy, black breath. “But there is forgiveness to be gained. Zira was right. I doubt you’d look to God, being a horse and all. But if you look to... a friend...?” Crowley stroked her again. “I say what you just did wasn’t your fault. It was your mistake but it wasn’t your _fault_. There’s a difference.”

He and his horse plodded along, then started to trot, black on black into the night.

  


**♔**

  


The carriage came hurtling around the corner, Nellie and Stanton trotting with Winnie holding their reins, the servant’s eyes locking to Anathema’s as the carriage pulled up to the kerb.

“What _happened_, my Lady?” Winnie asked, seeing Crowley and Zira’s fronts dusted in blue powder, then seeing the body in the gutter, and looking away before she could see it again. “What in God’s name—”

“Long story,” Crowley said, coming to a halt nearby. “Basically, we gotta get going. Fast. Zira, get in the carriage.”

“Darling, what about you? Aren’t you—”

“Someone has to ride Ophelia,” Crowley interrupted.

“I’ll ride Ophelia,” Anathema said firmly. “I know where we’re heading.” She cocked her head, commanding Crowley inside the carriage.

Crowley shook his head. He dismounted Ophelia, got up onto the ledge where Winnie sat, and bumped her along. “I’ve got this,” he told her.

Winnie gave him a look, then nodded, grateful, and got down, helped into the carriage by Zira, followed by Newt.

Anathema climbed onto Ophelia’s back. She smiled, stroking the beast she’d known and fallen in love with as a foal. “Come on, chica,” Anathema said to the horse. “Let’s go home.” She gave Crowley a ready look, then took hold of Opehelia’s mane in both hands, squeezed her belly— “_¡Vamos!_”

Many eyes watched them leave that night, saw that black carriage with a domed top driven by a slim figure in dark glasses, and two mismatched horses; beside them went a stamping streak from the Underworld, ridden by a woman without a saddle.

But those eyes fell shut, as they were tired, and had been woken unwillingly from slumber.

The hounds of London turned a blind eye, and a deaf ear, and howled no more.

  


**♔**

  



	25. Shal Ryde, In Flames

They made better time returning to the Device Estate than they had leaving. Partly they were fuelled by fear, chased by the ghosting memories of things seen and unseen, the Witchfinders in their hoods, the fall of Gabriel’s hand, the blast of blue smoke, the flare of Wignall’s cigar and the way his body crumpled as he was betrayed by his own subordinate—

But partly it was because a thick pillar of smoke rose from Highworth. Without wind, it didn’t travel, just rose, blocking out the stars.

Crowley saw it. Anathema saw it.

Five miles away they could smell it. It was not the friendly smoke of a woodfire. It was toxic with destruction, as if it had eaten through a hundred different things and was still hungry for more.

Two miles away, they saw the flames.

They pulled up to the open gates of Device Estate, seeing what they’d been expecting but dreading.

The manor blazed high and wide, an assaulting orange flame framed squarely in each broken window, the abhorrent heat of it melting the snow in a mighty ring around the building. The glass of the conservatory had shattered. The nearby trees were burned or burning.

And before the gate, Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell paced, holding his horse and forcing the creature to pace with him.

“_YOU_.” Crowley leapt from the carriage, striding up to Shadwell and taking him by his lapels. “You did this.”

Anathema got down from her horse as Newt and the others got out of the carriage.

“I dinnae— They were all so aggressive, I dinnae— They marched up and said they had orders, I dinnae ken what orders, but they—”

“The Witchfinders did this,” Anathema realised, easing Crowley off Shadwell with a gentle hand.

Shadwell nodded frantically, tears under his wrinkled eyes. “I ne’ver would’ve, your graciousness, I swaar it— They said thare werra beast in there, and aye, I said, I thought so too, and they— They w’s gonna smoke it oot... I couldn’ae stop thum...”

Anathema took Crowley aside, pushing him by the chest, and he went, snarling and spitting with hurt.

Anathema turned, asking, “Was there anyone inside?”

A pale face appeared from behind the pillar of the gate – Bertha, wrapped in Cook Li Na’s shawl. Cook came out next, arms tucked under her apron.

“Nobody inside, me Lady,” Bertha said, tearfully, with a curtsey. “But not for their lack of trying. They locked all the doors. We got out a window.” She sobbed, then flew to Anathema, wrapping her in a hug. “So glad you’re a’right, m’Lady! We thought— W-We thought—”

Anathema hugged her scullery maid, then looked through her tears at Zira, who was weeping in silence, hands over his mouth. Crowley rested his forehead on Zira’s shoulder. Winnie stood, stunned, with her hands grasping the puff of her hair, clawing it back. Newt came to Anathema, touching her back.

“We have to go,” Newt said solemnly. “No matter if they think they killed us, or scared us, we can’t stay here.”

Anathema nodded firmly. “The carriage can’t take all of us, the horses are tired. Crowley, Zira – you’re with me. I’ll take you to a safehouse. Newt... Take care of Cook and Bertha and Winnie.”

Newt nodded. “I’ll find somewhere protected.”

Shadwell took a small breath. “Naught for nothin’, laddie, but... where best to hide from the Witchfinders than... a Witchfinder headquarters? There’s nae beds but I can do ye a cushion or two in a pinch. Could sup wi’ some soup. An’ thar’s plenty’a tea.”

Anathema gave Shadwell a long, discerning look.

Shadwell took off his felt hat. “Ne’er meant ye any harm. God as my witness, my Lady. Only wanted that beast gone tae protect ye.”

Anathema sighed. “There was never any beast, Sergeant.” She cocked her head towards Crowley. “Just a friend.”

Shadwell stared for a while. Past the edge of the sunglasses, he saw a flash of yellow flame in a yellow eye, and drew a breath. But he said nothing. He turned away to process.

When Newt shrugged, Anathema gave him a small smile.

She turned back to the carriage, climbing into the driver’s seat. She waited as Newt and Shadwell unhitched Stanton from the carriage and helped Ophelia into place.

“See you soon,” Anathema promised, reaching to hold Newt’s hand.

Newt kissed her knuckles, and her engagement ring. “Meet you in Tadfield?”

Anathema nodded.

“My Lady!” Winnie cried, reaching. She looked fiercely at Anathema. “I’m coming with you.”

Anathema opened her mouth to argue, but Winnie glared at her, and climbed up into the driver’s seat beside her. She took the reins from Anathema’s hand.

Anathema chuckled. She waved her fingers to Newt, then looked onward.

With a clack of the reins and a soft call in Spanish, the carriage turned and began its next journey, going at a moderate pace. Wheel tracks joined the dozens of others in the dirty snow.

It was well past midnight when their slow tracks became the only set cut through the white.

It was two o’clock when the snow faded from view. The roads were quiet here. The only disturbance was the sluggish stab of hooves on the ground, the huffs of the horses, and the rumble of their heavy wheels.

It was almost three o’clock in the morning when the two exhausted horses plodded around a bend of in country lane, easing to a halt in front of a cottage with an evergreen hedge.

Winnie dropped from the side of the carriage, sniffing, wiping her cold-numb face with the back of a hand. “Where are we?” she asked.

“Jasmine Cottage,” Anathema answered, aching on her feet as she took her weight again. She patted Nellie’s sweating rump, and breathed, “One of my properties. Safest place there is.”

“You used to live here,” Winnie remembered.

“A long time ago,” Anathema smiled, looking up at the pleasant blue shape before them, its chimney and thatched roof outlined by the setting moon. “The first time I came to England, as a child.”

As Winnie let the horses free, and led them to the field behind the cottage, Anathema went to the door of the carriage, opening it up.

She stilled as she saw Zira and Crowley huddled on a seat inside. They were asleep in each other’s arms, slumped with heads on shoulders, hands around each other’s waists.

The chill of outside air stirred Crowley to consciousness, and a line of yellow looked out. He inhaled, sitting up, giving Zira a squeeze to wake him.

“Hm? Are we there yet?” Zira asked.

Crowley nodded, nose against his forehead. “We’re there.”

Anathema let them gather themselves up while she went ahead, through the hedgerow arch, then between overgrown flowerbeds and over weeds. She bent at the waist, digging in the tangles to find a secret rock. Under it, she found a worm, and a key.

The key opened the door to the cottage with a satisfying clack. She looked back over her shoulder, seeing Crowley and Zira approaching, hand-in-hand, with Winnie behind them.

The place was cold as they entered. Undisturbed. It was even more silent than the night, so quiet it pressed on the ears.

“It’s been empty for years,” Anathema said softly, putting the key by the kitchen water pump to wash later. “Never rented it out in case I needed it.” She looked back at Crowley and Zira. “Or _someone_ needed it.”

“I’ll light the fire,” Winnie said, having spied the fireplace in the kitchen – but Anathema took her arm.

“Not tonight,” Anathema said softly. “Let me.”

“But! My Lady—”

Anathema insisted, “Let me.”

  


**♔**

  


Crowley went from the washroom to an empty bedroom carrying a candle, walking with a hand cupped around the flame. He was too tired to notice much about the house. He knew it was cold, he knew it was small, he knew it smelled old and dusty but not altogether unpleasant. He didn’t rifle through the cupboards looking for clothes, just undressed to his underwear and undershirt, wiped all the blue powder off his face, then slumped back downstairs, wondering where Zira was.

Of all the things Crowley had expected Zira to be doing, cooking was not top of the list. Third, maybe. Zira hadn’t even undressed. He’d wiped the blueness off his skin but that was about it.

“Angel,” Crowley said, going to Zira, who stared at the fire, a frying pan of sliced potatoes in one hand, a fire poker in the other. Crowley sighed. “Come here.”

Zira turned his chin to Crowley but not his eyes. Crowley undid his cravat for him, then helped him with his tailcoat, then unbuttoned his shirt, but let him keep it on for warmth.

“This is all my fault,” Zira said quietly, as Crowley returned to him with a plate from a cupboard, and began warming it near the fire so the food wouldn’t chill once transferred. “I shouldn’t have decided to go to that ridiculous Ball. And I shouldn’t have let you talk me into taking you.”

“Angel, if you or I had stayed home, who’s to say we’d have survived the fire? We made it here alive. Everyone who wanted us dead thinks they succeeded. Nothing else matters.

“Besides,” Crowley added, “You were doing your duty.” He held out the plate as Zira tipped the food onto it. He shrugged. “Even if your ‘donation’ wasn’t even yours, it’s the showing up that was important. You know as well as I do—” Crowley touched his sore tattoo, “it was symbolic of your support.”

“But the people I was supporting— The _actions_ I was condoning—”

“Liars and their lies,” Crowley said, pulling up a chair to sit by Zira at the table in the middle of the kitchen. “I said this to someone already, tonight: it was your mistake, yeah, but not altogether your fault.”

“So what _is_ my fault, then? Where am I supposed to take responsibility, exactly?”

Crowley popped a potato into his mouth, smiling. “Take responsibility for the fact these taste so good.”

Zira’s cheeks plumped up with pride.

“No,” Crowley said seriously, as he and Zira picked apart their tiny meal, “I think you chose a mushroom out of a barrel of mould, because you were never shown another barrel. You did your best with what you were given and what you were taught.”

Zira snorted.

“But you’re here now, angel.” Crowley chewed, nodding. “You found another barrel.”

“We didn’t do anything,” Zira said in quiet dismay. “What difference did we make? Gabriel and Beelzebub might not have killed us but they still made an example of us to other people. As far as anyone else is concerned, we did wrong, and we were punished.”

“But they did _see_ you,” said Winnie, stepping into the kitchen, one hand on the door frame. “They know people like you exist now. People who don’t care for either of the two extremes we’re forced to live by. They know there’s... another option.”

Crowley gestured to Winnie happily. “There. Told you. Barrel.”

“Maybe if...” Winnie said hopefully, “If enough people do what you did, or at least secretly believe in what we believe in, we’ll be able to change things. Someday. Somewhere down the line.”

“I hope that’s true,” Zira said. He offered the plate to Winnie. “Potato? Dug them out of the garden myself.”

“Thanks, but I... I can’t really eat after... all that,” Winnie said. She put on a smile. “Lady Anathema’s going to bed now. She told me to give you this.” On the table she put a small tin of something. “Soothing antiseptic ointment for your tattoo. She says it’s a few years old but it might still work.”

“Thanks,” Crowley said, pulling the tin close, opening the lid, sniffing the contents, then slathering the minty gel on his tattoo with two fingers.

Winnie added, “I’m turning in as well – is there anything you need before...?”

Zira gave the girl a soft smile. “Nothing at all, Miss Winnie. Thank you. And I dare say you’ve been very brave today. You should be proud.”

Winnie almost turned for the door, but looked back. “Same for you two.” She left, looking back once – and then she was gone.

Crowley leaned back in his chair, making it creak. His tattoo had been stinging more and more fiercely as the night grew older, but was quickly feeling soothed. He capped the tin, wiped the residue on his shirt, then yawned.

“Look,” Crowley said tiredly, thumbing at Zira’s empty plate, then sucking burnt crumbs off his thumb, “All this chaos tonight... It’s as much my fault as yours. The choices I made all along, even months ago, they played right into those bastards’ hands. But the last straw was... me, showing up, dressed like this. I should’ve come as a woman like we planned. Me, yes, but... a version of me that might’ve been easier to palate by the people who wouldn’t otherwise give me a second glance. Every eye in the room was on us while we danced.”

Crowley was surprised to hear Zira chuckling. “What? What’s so funny?”

“You think _that’s_ what they tried to murder us over? No,” Zira said kindly, “you came the way you wanted, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Besides, the fun of tonight wasn’t for me, it was for you too. I’d just be glad to know you had a good time.”

Crowley shrugged. “Well. I _did_ have a good time... before it all went wrong...”

They went quiet.

Somehow, in all the madness, Crowley had let a certain fact sink to the bottom of his awareness, and it resurfaced now, bright and glowing. “Angel... Did we... get engaged?”

Zira started to smile. Then he grinned. He looked at Crowley softly, and nodded. “I do believe we did, my dear.”

Crowley hummed, acting nonchalant. “I suppose that’s a plus.”

“Mm. I’d say so.”

Zira let out a long breath, smiling. He soon stood up, bowing to nudge his head against Crowley’s. “Come along, dear. Anathema mentioned there’s a bed we can share.”

“Yeah, I found it,” Crowley said. “Bit dusty, but if we shake the sheets it’ll be fine.”

Crowley got to his feet, tucking the chair in behind him. He followed after Zira, carrying the candle – then reached out his free hand to take Zira’s at the base of the stairs. Zira looked back, met Crowley’s eyes – then they climbed together, ascending, leaving behind the trials of the day and finding a new, quiet sanctuary, up there in the darkness.

  


**♔**

  



	26. Tadfield

They’d woken up in each other’s arms more times in the past months than they’d thought to count. Usually it was a comfortable affair, with soft smiles, and snuggles, and kisses, and five more minutes... five more minutes...

But this morning, the morning after their great escape from society, waking up... well, it could’ve been better.

“Crowley,” Zira croaked, smacking his lips in distaste, as his mouth tasted revolting. “Crowley, your tattoo...”

Crowley groaned in discomfort, one lazy hand sneaking to touch it. He hissed. “Stings.”

“I should say so!” Zira sat up, looking concerned. “You’re bleeding.”

“I am?” Crowley looked at his faintly red fingertips. “Hng.”

“And there’s blue dust in your hair,” Zira said, getting out of bed. “And good Lord, there’s blue dust on the sheets. And—” He looked at the trousers he’d taken off last night. “Dear-oh-dear.”

Crowley sat up, reaching up to push his hair back – and yelped, looking around for all his hair that had fallen out – only to remember that he’d had it cut on purpose. He huffed explosively and flopped back to the bed, embarrassed that his heart was pounding.

“I think you and I are due for a bath,” Zira said, putting on his dirty clothes. “Let’s hope there’s some changes of clothing around in this little cottage of Anathema’s.”

Crowley rolled his head to look at him softly. “‘S not Anathema’s anymore, angel,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Well, it is.” Crowley sat up, swinging his bare legs out of bed, reaching out with his toes to nudge Zira. “But it’s ours. We live here now. This is...” He gestured at the rafters, finger twirling, eyes roaming... landing back on Zira. “This is home. From now until forever.”

Zira went still, fingers paused on his shirt buttons. “I suppose it is, rather,” he breathed.

Crowley gave him a smile and a shrug.

Zira leaned in, kissed him chastely on the lips, then offered a hand. Crowley took it, and with a grunt of exertion, he was up. They went off, in want of the outhouse and breakfast and buckets of hot water for a bath.

  


**♔**

  


The bath would not be ready for a full two hours after they’d gotten up, as they wouldn’t let Winnie heat the bathwater, Crowley was out of practice with metal-plus-fire mathematics, and Zira had never done it before. Hunger got in the way, briefly; a problem solved by Anathema, who returned from buying groceries at Tadfield’s Sunday market, providing all four of them with eggs and bacon and sweet, fluffy, buttered toast.

Breakfast conversation comprised of, firstly, a recap of the previous night, including that oh-so-lovely conversation led by Gabriel and Beelzebub, the recollection of which left Anathema looking rather colourless, despite her rich complexion. With that unpleasantness over with, talk turned to the weather, which despite, or because of, its absolute banality, was a comforting topic for the English breed – especially the English who’d had an especially difficult time the night before.

It was springtime in Tadfield, no question about it. No snow. Flowers everywhere. And sunshine. So much sunshine.

Crowley was particularly relieved by this. He’d been so deprived of daylight, for what felt like more than months, maybe even years, that simply watching a square of watery gold creep across his breakfast plate was a blissful sight to behold. He spent half the morning sneaking his fingers into that patch of heat, looking at the shape of his shadow while the others talked. He’d never really noticed sunlight before, and was only now realising its worth.

Anathema provided him with a saline wash for his tattoo. That one wasn’t in the herbiary book – it was “just common sense”, apparently.

Crowley bent his head and stuck his cheek in the bowl of warm, salty water. Oh, it _stung_. A lot of hissing transpired. Very loud, aggressive, unhappy hissing.

Kisses followed.

And more grumpy hissing.

Followed by a hug.

...And a small, secret snake smile.

  


**♔**

  


In all the time they’d been friends, Zira had seen Crowley naked often, but never once had Crowley seen Zira naked. At last, they undressed together in the bathroom – backs turned at first, but Zira peeked over his shoulder, and Crowley peeked over his, and they grinned, and breathed in shy huffs as they stepped out of their underwear.

The bathwater was steaming, and Crowley got the privilege of being the first to get in. He purred as he sat down, head back on the cool porcelain, eyes closed against the sunbeam that warmed his eyelids, painting his vision red. He half-opened one eye as Zira’s foot disturbed the water. Crowley offered a hand, and Zira took it, sitting himself down at the other end of the bathtub, raising the water level by six inches.

Zira was blushing, but happy. He hugged his hairy knees and looked softly at Crowley.

Crowley grinned, stretching out a leg to poke Zira’s thigh.

Zira yipped, spasming in the bath, knocking an elbow. His eyes watered as he laughed through the pain, “Crohohwehleee—”

Crowley cackled, spreading his legs entirely, sinking wet hands back through his messy, short hair. “Sorry, angel.”

“You’re not sorry.”

“Am too.” Crowley pouted. Then he smirked.

“You fiend,” Zira accused, affectionately. He settled back, head lolling to one side, eyes set lovingly on Crowley.

Crowley looked around for the soap, and found a bar of it on the wooden stool by the bath. He took it, wet it, and began a lather. He washed his face, avoiding the tattoo, then rinsed off, starting on his neck and shoulders while Zira soaked all his hair, leaving it all raggedy and flat against his scalp. By the time Crowley passed him the soap, little white curls were starting to pop up from his head, unwilling to let water hold them down.

For the most part, their shared bath was a practical activity, the task being to remove blue powder and the stink of panic leftover from last night. Of course the water ended up blue, and full of soap bubbles, collecting around the water’s rim. But, as the water began to cool, and they’d each done plenty of awkward acrobatics to wash personal places without looking too ungainly in front of an audience, and had bumped elbows and knees and toes and each other’s foreheads – that was the worst – they settled back, enjoying the bath because they were enjoying each other.

“You, um,” Crowley said, scratching at his soft stubble. He shrugged, and offered a tender smile. “You’re really... beautiful.”

Zira stopped thinking about how and when they’d clean grime off the upstairs windows, and started staring at Crowley. Then he started beaming. “Oh,” he said, warmly. He hugged himself, shoulders up, a tiny, half-suppressed smile tugging at his lips. Eyes down, he murmured, “Thank you.”

Crowley cocked his head, letting a foot stroke Zira’s thigh. “I mean it. You have nice shoulders. And good, strong legs. And your, um... tummy...? is cute. And so’s your – thingie.”

Zira went pink. “Crowley!”

Crowley grinned. “Is though.”

Zira tried to hide his shoulders under his hands out of self-consciousness. Seeing his discomfort dismayed Crowley so intently that he exclaimed, “Stop that! Angel. Look, I— Oh, come here.” He beckoned with both hands.

“What?” Zira frowned.

“Here. Now.” Crowley beckoned faster. “Lie with your back to me.”

Zira hesitated twice, glancing away, but then... slowly, he inched closer, turned around, looked back... then leaned his back to Crowley’s chest.

“Hmmmm,” Crowley sighed, content. He nuzzled against Zira’s damp hair, arms sneaking around Zira’s squishy middle, holding him. Zira’s arms were clenched around himself protectively, but Crowley snuck his hands under them, and held on.

He bowed his head and kissed Zira’s shoulder. “Mm love every li’l inch of you, angel. Every gorgeous, soft little part, ‘kay? All of you. _All_ of you.” He kissed his neck slowly, murmuring against his skin, “Mmmm. And you smell nice.”

Zira couldn’t help it... he started to smile. He relaxed, head back on Crowley’s shoulder. He held his hand.

After a minute, Zira turned his head, and Crowley crooked his neck so they could share a proper kiss.

They breathed out, and they were both smiling.

“Do you believe me yet?” Crowley asked.

Zira chuckled. “I believed you before, my dear.”

“Then...? Why did a simple compliment unsettle you?”

Zira shrugged. “Nobody’s ever...”

Crowley rocked their heads together, cuddling Zira close with both arms. “Someone does, now.” He gave him another kiss, promising with a smile, “And someone always will.”

  


**♔**

  


In the early afternoon, Anathema and Winnie left behind Jasmine Cottage, heading to the village centre for lunch with Newt, who’d shown up with spare clothes just in time to prevent Zira from leaving the bathroom wearing a bedsheet as a toga.

Crowley was perfectly happy wearing a bedsheet as a toga, and once he got downstairs, took a pair of scissors to it, cut it in half, and tied knots at his shoulders and waist, and belted the middle with a fabric strip, fashioning himself an elegant white dress that wouldn’t have been out of place in ancient Greece.

He went barefoot into the garden, feeling something rising in him that he’d never felt before. He’d known joy, and exhilaration, and contentment, but there was a new feeling now, something only half to do with feeling safe, well-fed, and being with loved ones, and half to do with the sunshine and the sound of bees and the smell of violets and daisies and forget-me-nots perfuming the air he breathed.

The sun touched his skin and _everything_ was okay for once. Maybe for the first time in his life.

He and Zira spent some time – over a hour – exploring their new garden. Zira, unwilling to ruin his clean ivory trousers, began mentally plotting a vegetable garden, as he was sure there were more logical ways to find potatoes than pulling up a dozen similar-looking weeds in the dark before finding the right one. He also wanted radishes. Crowley could not get him to divulge why he wanted radishes, as they were hateful vegetables, but apparently Zira had a craving.

Crowley leaned on a back fence, gazing with hooded eyes at the green expanse behind the cottage, where Nellie, Ophelia, and Stanton grazed, occasionally rushing around, chasing each other for fun, tails flicking. They were as thrilled about the unexpected springtime as Crowley.

Quietly, in the back of Crowley’s mind, he decided he wouldn’t wear sunglasses unless he really had to. The pleasure of sunlight on his eyelids, and the blaze of colour that filled his vision was just too good. He wanted to come out here every day. Revel in the light.

He gazed sideways at Zira: the other light in his life.

“We should get married outside,” Crowley said. “In the garden.”

Zira stopped rambling about bindweed and looked back at him. “Oh? Is that what you’d like?”

“The brightest, sunniest, most obnoxiously shiny day,” Crowley said.

Zira smiled, taking Crowley’s hand. “Alright.”

They were headed back inside for lemonade – neither of them had ever made lemonade, but presumably it required lemons, sugar, and water – when a curly golden mop appeared over the top of their hedge, followed by a brown mop, a mousey-haired mop, and a telltale puff of black.

“Hallo, you four,” Zira said, giving them a wave. “Surprised to see us, are you?”

“Not really,” Adam said carelessly, scrunching an apple as he strolled in under the hedgerow arch, his gang in tow. “Anathema _said_ if everything went sideways, you’ll need somewhere safe to live. She’s in the village square now, at the tailor’s, buying four of everything for you.”

“We’ve come to give you this,” Wensleydale said, presenting Crowley with a familiar-looking fern.

“We thought you might need something to shout at,” Pepper said. “Given that you’re wanted fugitives, presumed dead, living on the lam, and your house burned down. And your new snake tattoo hurts, apparently. Probably quite a stressful situation.”

“How kind of you,” Zira cooed, taking the plant. He shot a glance to Crowley, smiling when Crowley grinned and took the plant pot to hug it.

“We’ve been keeping watch,” Pepper said, “all around the village, and in the forest. We know all the best lookout places – if there’s any Black Knights or Witchfinders coming to burn your house down again, we’ll see them.”

“And then there’s traps,” Brian said, wiping something sticky on his shirt. “Giant ditches we dug in the forest. We’ll lure them in.”

“Ah,” Zira said appreciatively.

Crowley was curious. “Do those traps catch the Resistance as well?”

“They catch anyone with feet,” Wensley said. “But the foxes can jump out. We tested. Why?”

Crowley and Zira exchanged a glance.

“The Resistance are just as corrupt and dictator-driven as the Knights,” Pepper said. “My mum _said_, ages ago.”

“How was the Winter Ball?” Brian asked, unfazed by the news about the Resistance. Apparently Anathema had caught them up, and Pepper’s mother was well ahead of the game.

“Ehhhh?” Crowley rolled a shoulder. “Could’ve been worse. Pretty good.”

“We almost died twice,” Zira said. “Three times if you count the lightning. Four if you count the horse.”

“But we _didn’t_ die, did we. So it was great.”

“Also we—” Zira gave Crowley a smile. “Do you want to tell them, my dear, or shall I?”

“Tell them what?” Crowley asked.

“That we’re engaged, you dolt.”

“Oh, _that_,” Crowley said, head back. “Mm. Slipped my mind,” he added, cheekily.

“Wait,” Pepper said, starting forward. “Properly engaged? Not getting pretend married, real married?”

“Well,” Zira worried, “I suppose there are some legal issues, I’m sure it would be hard if not impossible to find a reverend – or a monk – with, um, an open mind—”

“Pff,” Adam said. “Legally binding, eternally binding, what’s the difference, anyway? Just do what we did before and sign a fancy paper. It’s all about intentions anyway. If you say it’s real, then it’s real.”

Zira’s worry was softened by that. “Oh...” He gazed at Crowley, who was beaming back at him. “Could we do that?”

Crowley arched his lips in a shrug, then nodded.

Zira relaxed. “This summer?”

Crowley nodded again.

Zira made a pleased sound.

“You’ll be really happy here,” Adam said, finishing his apple, then tossing the core into the flowerbed, which Zira tutted at, but then remembered that apple cores could grow apple trees, which made him realise having apple trees out here would mean they’d eat lots of apple pie, which made it all okay.

“Tadfield’s the best place on Earth,” Brian said.

“You gotta come see the village!” Wensley said. He rushed forward and took Zira’s hand. “Come on!”

“What, _now_?” Crowley asked, fretting with his fern. “Shouldn’t we wait until Anathema gets back?”

“We can meet her there,” Pepper said.

Crowley made up his mind, went inside, put down the fern by the sink – then moved it to a shadier spot – then went back outside, still in bare feet. Pepper snatched up his hand before he had time to worry about that, and within a minute they were all on their rambling way down a country lane, where bees were humming, butterflies were fluttering, hedges were green and readying their blossoms, and starlings swooped overhead, swift speckles in a pleasantly soft blue sky.

Hushing, sparkling-fresh trees overhung the lane, casting dappled, softly-shifting shadows and twinkling lights on the path under Crowley’s feet. There was barely a chill to the dirt; he was starting to believe Adam when he’d said this place was magic. It was like a hidden pocket in the jacket of the world they all knew. Divorced from reality. The same rules didn’t apply.

Zira took Crowley’s hand, swinging it as they ambled along, listening to the children appreciate Crowley’s new tattoo. Pepper in particular was moved by the sight of it, while pretending not to be.

The kids soon started to talk about the beehives in the eastern fields, the cricket grounds, and how _great_ it was that Zira and Crowley were arriving now, just as spring came, so if they liked what Tadfield was like today, they’d only love it more as the year progressed.

“It’s best just at the end of summer,” Adam said. “And autumn. Just as the leaves start to change. Dog loves chasing leaves, don’t you, Dog?”

Dog was carrying a too-big stick in his mouth, dragging a line behind him with one end.

“Winter’s nice too,” Brian said. “Adam’s mum, Mrs. Young, she sells the _best_ mince pies in the village.”

“Summer’s my favourite,” Pepper said. “Even when it’s stormy.” She looked at Zira. “What’s your favourite season?”

“To be fair, I don’t really have a favourite season,” Zira said, ponderously, gazing up at the boughs of the trees, tasting the sweetness on the air as it fluttered all the baby leaves. “Never been especially fond of drizzle, though. I like any season without drizzle.”

“Never drizzles here,” Adam said firmly. “Only proper rain. Sometimes there’s mist or fog in October.”

“I never paid much attention,” Crowley said vaguely, distracted and awed by everything around him. He stopped on the path, reaching out a hand to cradle a velvet-soft cerulean leaf bud on his fingers, smoothing it with a thumb. A ladybug crawled onto him, buzzed its wings, then took off and flew away. Crowley tracked it into the sky, lips parted, a tiny smile crooking up the corners of his lips. Zira stayed with Crowley until he was ready to move on again, and when they did, Zira saw a blissful gleam in Crowley’s sunshine eyes. “I can’t _believe_ I never paid attention before.”

“This place is wonderful,” Zira said, as they came to the village square, Crowley’s bare feet on red brick now. “Oh! Look, Crowley, there’s a barber shop! And a public house – Bull and Fiddle, looks lovely. There’s the tailor, I suppose Anathema is in there. A jeweller. A blacksmith, yes, yes. And what’s that? Is that shop empty? The one with the blank sign and empty windows.”

“Yeah,” Adam said. “Used to be a furniture shop. Ol’ R.P. Tyler’s still tryna get it rented out but nobody has anything to sell. This village basically has one of everything. Everything except a school.”

Zira’s eyebrows rose, looking at the shop hopefully. But before he could ponder aloud, something colourful caught his eye – “Ooh! There’s _restaurants_, Crowley! And dear Lord, someone pinch me. That’s a bakery. Oh, this is just divine.”

“That’s where Mrs. Young works,” Pepper said, pointing at a quaint little eatery with chairs outside and a striped forest-green awning above. “It’s not mince pie season but she does a really good fruit tart.”

“Actually, it’s the best fruit tart in the world,” Wensley said. “At least all the world I’ve ever been to.”

Zira was squeezing Crowley’s hand tightly, bouncing on his heels and whining faintly at the back of his throat. Crowley glanced at him and chuckled fondly, seeing enthusiasm abound in those wide silver eyes.

“There she is!” Adam said, waving as Anathema came out of the tailor’s shop, Newt and Winnie behind her, arms laden with pinstriped hatboxes.

Zira didn’t let go of Crowley, but went to their friend with the children, holding out a hand until Anathema was close, then taking her into a hug, kissing each cheek once as he pulled back.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” Zira said. “And _what_ an afternoon! I say, Anathema, this place is absolutely marvellous. Absolutely marvellous. I have _no_ words.”

“Pretty neat, huh,” Anathema grinned. The breeze teased at her hair, and she tucked a loose lock behind her ear, then glanced at Crowley. “How about you, you think you could settle down here? I know it’s a bit quirky compared to Mayfair, but...?”

Crowley smiled. “Do you even have to ask?”

Anathema winked secretively. “Never know. You might hate sunshine.”

Crowley looked at Zira, and Zira looked back. Crowley beamed. “Nah,” he said, to Anathema. “Big fan of sunshine.”

“Oh—” Anathema reached for Winnie, who let her take a hatbox. “Got these for you.” She showed Zira a box filled with folded pastel-coloured clothes, waistcoats and trousers. “And theeeese...?” She opened another box as Winnie put the lid on the first. “These are for you.” She showed Crowley another box full of black. It was hard to tell what everything was, but Crowley definitely caught the zig-zag of a corset ribbon.

Grinning with glee, then with guilt, Crowley said, “You know we have literally no assets left to our names, right? We have nothing to give you for all your trouble.”

Anathema pursed her lips. “No... I think you do. I think you both do.”

“Oh?” Zira helped Winnie secure the boxes again, then set them all down on the brick tiles along with Newt’s. “Anything you think we can provide, Anathema, you can be sure we’ll devote ourselves to it completely until our debt is paid. We cost you your home, your status, your safety— We owe you our lives.”

“Oh, come on, you owe me nothing,” Anathema said lightly. “Buuuuhhht...?” She looked sneakily at the kids, who loitered nearby, eavesdropping. “With the Device Estate out of the picture—” She chuckled, slightly giddy with an idea, the mere reminder of which made Winnie grin and Newt puff up his chest with pride. “Obviously a manor like that was insured heavily. Ever since it fell to me, I’ve wanted to sell the damn thing, I never needed anything that big, but – duty to my family, you know? I was tied to it. Had to maintain it. But now. Now!” She laughed, reaching for the kids, bringing them close, bending at the knees to hug them all. Bright-eyed, she announced, “Now? I’m going to take that insurance money and open a school.”

The children gasped with excitement. Zira cried out and started to applaud, while Crowley smirked, then grinned, then rolled his eyes. By that time, the children had bypassed excitement, and Pepper said, flatly, “Wait.”

“It’s going to be in Tadfield, isn’t it?” Brian guessed.

“Damn right it is,” Anathema smiled.

Adam went, “Uhrghgghh.”

Anthema threw her head back laughing, but patted her little friends on their little heads, promising, “It’ll be fun.”

“Actually,” Wensley said, “Anathema always makes things fun.”

“Aw.” Anathema gave his shoulder a thank-you squeeze.

“So,” Zira started, thoughtful, “what is it you want _us_ to do, exactly?”

“Going to need staff, aren’t I?” Anathema smiled. She looked at Zira. “A librarian. An English and math teacher. An accountant.” To Crowley, she added, “Aaaand someone who can do a little critical thinking.”

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Crowley intoned.

“Hey, I saw the graffiti you left in all my books,” Anathema smirked. “And come on, you _lived_ it. You’re still living it. Maybe you think taking the status quo and upending it isn’t something that can be taught... but I think it is.”

“You... want me to... teach children... to be anarchists.”

Anathema shrugged. “Pretty much. I mean, we need that. The kids need that. You tried and failed to stop the war by cutting the head off the snake, but—”

Crowley hissed in alarm.

“Figure of speech!” Anathema corrected, touching Crowley’s bare arm assuringly. “But,” she went on, smiling, “just because the grown-ups are all Hell-bent on destroying what’s left of this country and the people in it – the kids know what’s up.” She stroked Pepper’s puff of hair back. “What was it your mom said to me, Pepper? Sometimes a little natural anarchy is the antidote to the architectured poison of society.”

Crowley thought she sounded mad. Yet he was growing more and more comfortable with this.

“It’s just one tiny village,” Anathema admitted, “And just a few dozen kids. But you know how the Resistance started, you know how the Black Knights rose to power: a dozen people with a goal in mind. And you _know_ we won’t be the only ones who want the fighting to end. There’s others out there. Yeah, we can’t change it all overnight, but—” She checked with Winnie, who nodded, and Newt, who hung an arm over Anathema’s shoulders. “But we have to start somewhere. Maybe the next generation can fix what we broke if we give them a leg up.” She looked Zira in the eye, then Crowley. “So, you in? Wanna start a revolution?”

Zira was already nodding. Crowley pretended to think about it, but then laughed, nodding, slinking his fingers between Zira’s yet again. “Sure. Why not. Not as if I have anything better to do.”

Zira looked longingly at the empty shop, lips parting. “Ih... Is there any chance...” He hesitated, then tutted, shaking his head. “No. Never mind. I’d certainly be pushing my luck. I have quite enough to contend with, thankyouverymuch,” he muttered firmly to himself. “No need for extraneous projects. I’m a teacher now, not a bookseller.”

Anathema followed his line of sight. She saw the empty shop.

Winnie leaned towards Anathema to utter, “There are thousands of Sir Zira’s unsold books taking up room in Countess Uriel’s basement, my Lady. And... you did say, we needed to find a place... just to get the school started...”

Crowley felt heat pulse through Zira’s hand. And Anathema started to scheme.

Anathema didn’t give Zira an answer. But she did smile slyly at him before she left, which was rather telling.

“Gosh,” Zira said, flapping a hand at his face. He and Crowley stood with the children, watching Anathema lead Winnie and Newt and their hatboxes to their waiting carriage. “_Teachers!_ Darling, is this ever how you thought things would turn out? I never would’ve, not in a million years.”

Crowley shrugged. “Never thought I’d make it _this_ far.” He lowered his eyes, smiling faintly. “Ehh, I could see it. Me waving a pointy baton at a chalkboard, telling some boisterous youth to quiet down. Black skirt. Red bow on a blouse collar. Curled hair, sensible heels.” He turned his eyes to the sky, drawing a peaceful breath. “Yeah. I could look forward to that.”

He gave Zira a slow smile, each of them understanding how big it was that Crowley could envision a future for himself, at last. And what a wonderful a future it could be.

Zira glanced around at the children. “Look. You four. I— Are you really quite sure we’d be welcome to stay in Tadfield? You and Anathema seem set on giving us everything we need here, but are you certain we won’t run into the same problems as before? Crowley _was_ a Black Knight. And I have brought a bit of disgrace to my name, to say the least. And we are—” he lifted their joined hands, “an unusual pair. We’re supposed to be dead. Perhaps we ought to operate under assumed names from now on.”

Pepper huffed, folding her arms. “If anyone wants to give you trouble, they’ll have to fight us, first.”

“Yeah. And besides,” Brain said, “the Black Knights versus the Resistance is just something the people here read about in the newspaper. It’s like a story, it’s not really _real_.”

“It’s only real to us because Anathema tells us,” Wensley said. “She tells us about everything.”

“People might ask you funny questions,” Adam told Zira and Crowley, “but if you’re nice to them they won’t mind you. And,” he grinned, “_even_ if you cause havoc they’ll still _tolerate_ you. Us four are living proof. Anyway, it’s like Pepper said. You’ll be safe here. And if anyone comes for you... we’ll protect you.”

  


**♔**

  


At first, a handful of determined children didn’t seem like much protection against the two divided halves of the country, many of whom were out for blood.

But, for Angel Thell, new manager of Eden Books (mostly on the weekends, when the place wasn’t a school library), and Anthony Cowwley (sometimes his twin sister Janice), having four anarchy-fuelled children, one mad woman with a new-fangled bicycle, one ex-servant, and one apologetic but insistent young man arguing in defence of their entire existence was really quite comforting indeed.

  


**♔**

  



	27. Worth It

“Who would’ve thought?” Crowley asked, crouching on the path to Jasmine Cottage, cupping a white rose blossom in his palm, looking up at it. “First off, Countess Uriel and Duke Gabriel. I _mean_,” he stood up and turned his attention to the sunflowers, sticking his hands in the pockets of his trousers, shoulders rising, “I knew those greedy sods just get married and remarried to acquire each other’s armies, but—”

“_Deeear?_” came a call from the cottage, where the shutters to the kitchen were open. “_Are you talking to me? I can barely hear you._”

“I’m talking to the flowers, angel,” Crowley called back.

“_Oh,_” Zira shouted back. “_That’s fine then. Did you tell them about Beelzebub?_”

“I’m getting to it!” Crowley shouted, head back. “You’re spoiling the story.”

“_What?_”

“Never mind!”

“_What?_”

Crowley laughed, ambling two steps closer to the cottage, leaning on the chalky-white windowsill, peering into the kitchen. Zira was standing by the kitchen table, sleeves rolled to his elbows, kneading dough in firm diagonals on a cutting board.

“Shush, angel.”

Zira tutted, looking over his shoulder at Crowley. “Come in quickly, won’t you, lunch is ready. I’ll put the dough aside to prove and then we’ll eat.”

“‘Kay,” Crowley said. He slumped from the window, going back to the flowers. “Anyway. Look. Long story short, Gabriel divorced Michael not long after the Winter Ball, then married Uriel – I told you that already. But here’s the thing. It came out in the papers today: Uriel divorced _Gabriel_ the moment the army-acquisition stuff cleared, which came with a bonus claim to his Scottish castle – and—” Crowley grinned toothily, “here’s the best part. Seriously. You’re never gonna believe this.”

He crouched down, biting his lip as he beamed, giving the radishes a sneaky look. “Uriel – heehee – Uriel married _Beelzebub_. Within two days. Can’t imagine how that happened. Blackmail. Bribery. Underlying chemistry. Who can say? But one big, ugly party later – one we were thankfully not invited to – Uriel’s a Duchess and in control of the Black Knights _and_ the Resistance. Practically every army in the country. It’s madness. _Madness_.”

Zira opened the front door of the cottage, peering out and leaning against the door frame, drying his clean hands on his apron. “Do you think it’ll actually make any difference?”

“What, me keeping the garden up to date with current events? Yeah. A well-informed cabbage is a far better conversationalist. And I’ll fight anyone who disagrees.”

“No, I mean,” Zira gestured around with a finger, mostly at the sky, “What Uriel did. Surely a truce is inevitable. We know Uriel had more of Anathema’s leanings than Gabriel’s, else those books would never have been kept safe for us.”

Crowley shrugged. “I dunno. Personally I’d wager it might even be... over.”

“Over? The whole war?”

Crowley glanced at Zira hopefully.

Zira looked back, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips.

Whether or not such speculation had any truth to it, it felt good to imagine England without war. Perhaps the love that pulsed at the heart of Tadfield could finally bleed to the rest of the towns and cities and counties from coast to coast and border to border. The remainder of the summer could be spent at peace. And from then...? Who could say what the country could become, devoting resources to progress rather than defiance. Teachers, scientists, artists – the world was full of people who had more to offer humanity than an ability to blow things up.

There were many reasons for two people to get married. Some, like Uriel, could bind opposing armies into one confused conglomerate, and potentially barricade against a tide that had been drowning the realm for almost thirty-five years.

Others...?

Zira glanced down, seeing the remains of confetti on the lawn, scattered around between blades of grass, some of it twitching in a soft summer breeze. “I still feel it,” he said, gently.

Crowley looked at the confetti, a glow of affection in his heart. “It does leave an echo, doesn’t it.”

_Do you, Anthony Janice Crowley, t-take me, Zira Fell... to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have, and to hold, in sickness and in health, bound in holy matrimony until death do us part?_

Crowley touched his thumb to the ring he wore, the wing of an angel curled around his finger. The sun touched the gold, and glinted bright.

_I do, angel. Beyond death. All of eternity._

His eyes turned to the place they’d stood only yesterday, bare feet in the grass, hands entwined. Anathema, Newt, Winnie, Bertha, Li Na, Madame Tracy, and even Shadwell stood beaming in a circle around them, the children gathered at Zira and Crowley’s backs, everyone crowned with their favourite flowers. It had been the brightest, sunniest, most obnoxiously shiny day. Crowley now had a slight sunburn on the backs of his shoulders, as the scarlet dress he’d made for himself had gathered in clasps on his shoulders and at his elbows, leaving skin open to the sun. He’d glittered like never before, wearing the necklace Zira gave him with total felicity.

_And, uhhm... D-Do you, Zira—_

_Oh, darling, yes. Yes! Don’t make me wait another moment!_

Warm laughter still danced among the flowers like petals on the wind.

_With this ring I thee wed,_ Crowley had said, his voice shaking and low, tears brimming in his waterline. _Hope you like it, angel._

Zira had been spinning the little wiggly silver snake around his finger all afternoon, all night, and all morning. Yes, he liked it. He loved it, in fact.

_And with _this_ wing I thwee wed—_ Zira had blushed, stammering, _Ring! With this ring... I thee wed—_

The confusion made sense, once Crowley saw the ring was a wing. Each feather was detailed enough that he hadn’t gotten bored of staring at it yet, and doubted he ever would.

_And so_, Anathema said, _by the power vested in me by God Herself – mm... okay, probably – I now pronounce you married. You may kiss!_

_kISS KISS Kiss kiss kisS KISS_—

They’d fallen together amidst the chanting, smiling, hands in hair, Zira jostling the crown of red lilies over Crowley’s quiff, as Crowley tilted his head and sighed in delight. His hands had slid down Zira’s waistcoat, tangling in the buckle on the back.

The paper confetti the children had tossed wasn’t the only thing left behind a day later. A wedding like that left an echo, like Crowley had said. He still felt the jolt of exhilaration with each heartbeat. He still felt the heat of stubborn gold as Zira slid the ring onto his finger. And Zira still felt the weight of a white rose crown on his platinum hair, each stem cut and braided by Crowley himself. The crowns remained fresh even today, but had been hung from the kitchen rafters, to be kept as souvenirs once dried to perfection.

Crowley looked up, seeing Ophelia prance through the field ahead, chasing the wind as fast as she could, ending her race with a twist and a jump, bucking for joy. She ran back again, tossing her mane. Crowley smiled.

“Come on,” Zira said fondly, still waiting in the doorway. “If we leave it any longer, the lettuce in the sandwiches is going to wilt in this weather.”

Crowley drew a breath, gathering his thoughts. “Hm.” He looked around for the basket he’d brought out, and found it by the petunias. He swept it up, plus an orange zinnia that that fallen out.

Inside the cottage, the shade cloaked Crowley with a coolness that soothed his sore shoulders. As Zira went to the table to serve lunch, Crowley set down his basket of flowers, and looked about for a vase.

“Oh, lovely,” Zira said, watching Crowley cram the flowers into a mug of water, then put the mug in the middle of a table. “Very lovely.”

Crowley had some flowers left over – big lilac daisies, a few sticks of lavender...

Zira was busy cutting their sandwiches into triangles the way Cook Li Na always did, because that somehow made them taste better. Without warning, something poked Zira’s scalp. “What are you up to now?” he wondered.

Crowley hummed, tilting his head halfway into Zira’s peripheral vision. He had flowers in his mouth, lips pressed to hold them. “Mmpurple suits you,” he mumbled, prying the flowers from his lips. “Ah, couple more, I think.” He patted a fourth flower into Zira’s hair, then tucked a fifth behind Zira’s ear. “Hm. Pretty.”

“Thank you,” Zira said. “Now do you want to eat, or not? Wash your hands, please. I don’t want you getting garden dirt on your lettuce, I was very careful washing it.”

“Hmm.” Crowley hugged Zira from behind, hands around his middle. “Innaminute.” He kissed the back of Zira’s neck, snuggling.

Zira relaxed. Lunch could wait another minute.

Their hands tangled together, feeling the wedding band on each other’s hands. It was foreign still, but was a source of joy to feel. Crowley smiled widely, eyes shut, resting his temple against Zira’s shoulder. Body heat radiated through his cotton shirt, and his scent... sweet, sweet marzipan...

Crowley nuzzled, and rocked Zira side-to-side, and Zira swayed with him, eyes closed, enjoying the moment despite his rumbling stomach.

Crowley laughed. “Was that you?”

“I’m hungry,” Zira complained.

“Oh?” Crowley grinned against him. “All empty. Right here?” He gave Zira’s stomach a tickle.

Zira keeled forward, giggling, but quickly catching his breath. “Yes,” he said, as Crowley kissed his neck. “Just there.”

“Here?” Crowley tickled him again, and followed him down as Zira bent at the knees, squirming away but never leaving Crowley’s arms. “Just there? Is that the right spot?”

“Aha-aha-ah-hee— Crowley-h-h-hhaha! Hahahah!” They hobbled back to their feet, Zira clinging to the kitchen sideboard. “Yes.” He laughed again, nodding. “Yes. Mm-hm.”

Crowley squeezed him tight. “Better let you eat, then.”

Zira turned in his arms, taking Crowley around the shoulders, hands behind his neck. They kissed softly, nosing at each other, then breathing out, happy as their eyes met again.

It was so damn peaceful here. Birdsong from outside, the hush of a slow breeze through the sapling trees. The soft, wholesome silence of the cottage. And each other’s breaths; the sensual affability of having each other close...

“Zira?”

“Mmm?”

Their eyes opened just a little, Crowley peering through his lashes at Zira’s round chin. “Was it... worth it for you?”

“Was what worth it?”

“What we have now... Was it worth losing everything? Ever since the day we met – taking me to the estate. The whole winter. Losing your status, all your money, your bookshop...? You lost _everything_ just to gain me. And I... I realise you see something in me, angel, and I can’t ever doubt you love me after all that. But was it worth it?”

Zira pressed his lips together playfully. “No.”

“Oh?” Crowley smirked, secure enough in his own self-worth that his heart didn’t even think about plummeting anywhere.

Zira gave his cheek a kiss. “It was _more_ than worth it. Crowley, I would do the same a hundred times over. I would lose even more than I already have, I’d give up _anything_ if I knew I’d still have you.”

Crowley hummed. “That’s because you know that no matter how this played out, Anathema and Newt would still help you ransack your bookshop and save all your books a hundred times over.”

Zira chuckled. “Well, yes.” He smooched Crowley on the nose. “But even if I lost the books too, Crowley. It would be worth it.”

Crowley buried his face against Zira’s shoulder, breathing out. His fingers hung from Zira’s shirt, thumb on a button. “Good to know,” he mumbled.

Zira stroked his back. “And for you? Was it all worth it for you?”

Crowley grinned, lifting his head. “Angel, I lost nothing. I had nothing to begin with.” He glanced at the bookshelf near the sink, where their fern draped its fronds in lush green arcs. “Come on, I didn’t even lose the stuff I _thought_ I lost. _How the Snake Got Her Legs_ made it out of the fire just fine, thanks to Anathema’s fire-proofing, and Shadwell and Tracy’s hunt through the wreckage. Even your journal. Even Anathema’s herbiary book. Even the damn _hairbrush_. All fine. We were a dozen kinds of lucky.”

He shrugged. “I really did lose nothing. But what I gained...” His breath shook. “A home. A family. Contentment. Freedom. Safety. A regular dose of Anathema’s mental mousetrap potion. A life partner.” He cocked his head, “And an epic snake tattoo to boot? Yeah.” He nodded slowly, holding Zira’s eyes, squinting in amusement. “‘Course it was worth it.”

Zira was dewy-eyed as Crowley gazed back at him.

“Aww.” Crowley stroked Zira’s cheek with the back of his hand. Zira got more and more adorable by the day, it seemed.

Settling his emotion, Zira managed to laugh, bringing Crowley in for a hug. “You old silly,” he whispered, for a lack of anything better to say.

Crowley squeezed back. “That’s me.”

He breathed in as he eased himself back. “Come on, angel,” he said lightly. “I’ll wash up, you take lunch out. We’ll sit in the garden.”

“Alright, my dear.” Zira ducked close for one more kiss, then left, plates in hand, his gaze stuck on Crowley until the last moment. He left, beaming like the sun.

Crowley joined him soon enough, two cool glasses of elderberry wine in hand. He sat opposite Zira on the wooden bench, under the shade of the bench’s parasol. Zira adjusted the parasol, crooking it towards Crowley protectively. Yes, the sun had healed Crowley from the outside in, just as Zira and their family had healed him from the inside out, but they were still finding the balance. They were close to finding it, that much was certain.

So, as they had more than thousand times before, Crowley and Zira ate together, bare feet touching, hands held on the tabletop.

They talked at length about the weather, and about the food, and about their garden. And, best of all, about the long and happy years of their lives that were to come.

**{ the end }**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH for reading! Please let me know if you enjoyed reading this! Favourite part? Best horse? Prettiest weather described??? Anything at all :D  
(If you don't feel like talking, I ADORE kudos~)
> 
> ♥ [Reblog fic graphic!](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/189929368485/almaasi-crooked-crowns-crowleyaziraphale-92k)  
♥ [Reblog summary with a few tag-like additions!](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/189929595915/crooked-crowns)  
♥ [Reblog opening lines and story description!](https://almaasi.tumblr.com/post/189929823400/crooked-crowns)
> 
> [All my other Crowley/Aziraphale fics are here~](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=114591&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=almaasi)
> 
> Here's to a world where we don't have to fear being our true selves in public.  
Elmie x


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